My Wonderland

 Well, today was chaos… the good kind. The kind where you're sprinting between appointments like a travelling circus act, but somehow it all works out. And by the end of it, your heart is full, your kid thinks he’s a rockstar ( he is ), and you’re somehow still functioning despite running on absolutely no caffeine. But let me backtrack. Because before we talk about the magic of today’s new OT session, there’s a shadow that deserves its own spotlight first... On the way to Little Bodies, Kaedyn asked me a question about his old beloved OT. “Mum, why do you like Julian so much?” How do you explain a person who didn’t just do their job? They changed your life? Julian wasn’t just Kaedyn’s OT. He was part of our family. He still is! We all hold so much love for him, his wife, and his kids; they are every shade of warmth and brilliance. He showed up. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, practically. Kind. Grounded. Generous with his time, his memory, his spirit. ...

There was a time when therapy felt like war. Not the inspirational movie kind. The real kind. The one with screaming, resistance, heartbreak, and me standing in the hallway taking deep breaths as I fought back tears, telling myself this is good for him. Kaedyn has hated therapy more times than I can count. And honestly? I’ve tried to black out most of those sessions.... #PTSD But this year… something changed. Kaedyn started asking questions, and so we started having some pretty big conversations. The kind no parent really wants to have but knows they have to . The ones that pull no punches and leave your heart sore for days. “If you want to walk, buddy… you have to want it. You have to fight for it. You’re allowed to hate it—most people would. But five or ten years from now, you could be walking with a frame, or a stick, or maybe even unaided. That future? It’s yours to shape. We’ll help you, but we can’t do it for you.” I didn’t think it had sunk in. He’s 11. His world revolves ...

At sixteen, I handed my English teacher a diary written from the perspective of an ANZAC soldier. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t even for a grade. But it was real . I wrote it like I was in the trenches, mud on my boots, grief in my chest. She read it, looked up at me, and said, “You should keep writing.” And in that moment, I believed her. But life moved fast... really fast! I worked. I partied. I made choices, good and bad. And then I became a mother, and everything changed. I had two babies under two. One needed me in every possible way, physically, emotionally, endlessly. Therapy became our routine. Hospitals became more familiar than playgrounds. I gave every ounce of myself to my kids, but somewhere in the chaos… I stopped hearing my own voice. Then, one night, I had a dream. And the next night, it came back. So I borrowed one of the kids’ iPads, tapped out the first scene, and something I thought was lost inside me, cracked open. I was 24 or 25. Exhausted. Lost. But I was w...

Dante is my oldest son, he's turning 13! And while everyone else might celebrate it as the beginning of the teen years, I’m here sitting with the quiet truth that his childhood is over, not in a dramatic way, but in a way that hurts if you look too closely. Because Dante’s childhood wasn’t just bikes and birthday parties. It was therapy clinics and hospital corridors. It was me wrapping him in cotton wool cause I was terrified something bad might happen to him. It was watching his brother’s legs get braced in AFOs while his own questions went unanswered. It was learning to entertain himself in the corner of a room while the spotlight was on someone else. It was missing out. Quietly. Repeatedly. Without complaint. He’s the boy who gave up Saturday sports so we could all go to inclusive games instead. The boy who learned to cheer for someone else’s milestones while tucking away his own. The boy who carried the emotional weight of our family’s reality before he had the words to compre...