Sunday Reflection: Reclaiming My Name through 'Nobody's Girl'"

 Dear Diary,

It is Sunday, and I’m finally sitting down to find my rhythm after a week of navigating the usual "brick walls." I’ve spent the morning thinking about Nobody’s Girl by Virginia Giuffre. It’s one of those books that stays with you, especially when your own body is screaming for a "Red Light" day.

This book feels like a series of "Mirror Moments" for me. Virginia talks about the "Invisible Cage"—that feeling of being trapped not just by circumstances, but by the systemic betrayal of people who should have protected you. Seeing the "receipts" of her father's actions while she was fighting for her own name... It’s a heavy reminder of why I’m so focused on my own Evidence of Success. When the world tries to take your name, you have to be the one to reclaim it.

The part that really hit my bandwidth was her battle with the physical cost. She writes about Fibromyalgia, depression, and severe neck pain. It’s a perfect example of "The Body Keeps the Score." Her body was trying to carry the weight of the world, and it eventually gave out. As someone living with Stage 4 Endometriosis and CP, I felt that in my soul.

She achieved so much for "the newer ones," but the cost was so high. It’s a tragic reality that we can find our way out of the Cage and into the Sanctuary, but we still carry the scars of the battle.

The Verdict: Virginia is the ultimate warrior. She reclaimed her legacy for her children even when her body was failing her. It’s given me a lot of "stickability" fuel for Book 5. We aren't defined by the cage; we are determined by the strength it took to break out of it.

Life Gives You a Code Brown... Win or Learn.

Dear Diary

Today feels like a mix of chaos and clarity. They say never work with children or animals, but Graeme Parker (The Hoof GP) works with half-ton cows that can kick you into next week. He does it with a smile, usually while his team—Craig and Cameraman Graham—are taking the mick out of him in the background.

I’ve just finished reading Code Brown (and his first book), and what struck me wasn’t just the farming. It was the electricity. Graeme is open about his Bipolar and ADHD, and you can feel that energy in everything he does.

Today, my own body is doing what I call "bouncing while flaring." My Endometriosis is shouting, but my brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. It’s a chaotic mix of high energy and chronic pain, and it made me realise I’m operating on the same philosophy Graeme lives by: Win or Learn.

The Accent that Changed Everything

One of the stories that stuck with me most wasn't about a cow at all. It was about the RAF. Graeme passed the physicals, passed the tests, and was ready to serve—only to be failed because of his accent.

It was an "embarrassing" rejection. It was unfair. But instead of letting that define him, he took it as a lesson. If he had joined the RAF, there would be no Hoof GP. No YouTube channel. No millions of views. It’s the ultimate example of a "Code Brown" moment turning into fertilizer for something better.

The "Have a Go" Hero

We live in a world that loves to over-plan (and over-worry). But when it came to rescuing Fiona, "The Loneliest Sheep," Graeme didn't wait for a safety assessment or a TV crew’s schedule. While the media were busy planning the perfect shot, he and his friends just went up the mountain and got her.

It reminds me of how we have to advocate for ourselves with disability. Sometimes, you can’t wait for permission. You just have to "have a go." Whether that is standing your ground against activists who don't understand the reality of the job, or standing up to a medical system that doesn't understand your pain.

The Real Cost of Grit

But let's not romanticize it. The job is brutal. Just before Christmas, Graeme nearly lost the use of two fingers from a cow kick. That isn't in the book—that is real life happening right now. It is a reminder that even when you are an expert, the risks are real.

The Verdict

Reading Code Brown felt like looking in a mirror—not because I want to trim cow hooves (definitely not!), but because of the resilience. It’s about showing up when you’re tired. It’s about laughing when things go wrong. And mostly, it’s about accepting that life is messy.

So, if you are having a "Code Brown" kind of day—whether it’s a flare-up, a bad meeting, or just a mess you can't clean up yet—remember the Hoof GP philosophy:

You don't lose. You either win, or you learn.

love

The Invisible Shift

Dear Diary,

I was looking at an old photo today from when the twins were seven. It’s strange how the 'chaos' changed back then. We had survived the nappies and the toddler meltdowns, but suddenly my calendar was filling up with things I couldn't physically control.

I call it the 'Invisible Shift.' 

It was the era of the school run, the constant buzz of birthday parties, and those long afternoons at the dance studio. On the outside, I was just another mum waiting for her kids, but on the inside, I was constantly calculating my bandwidth—measuring exactly how many steps I had left before my body gave out.

This was when I really learned that my 'maintenance' wasn't a luxury—it was my armour. 

Here is what those years really looked like behind the 'I'm fine' smile..." The nature of the struggle changed as they hit seven. We moved from the physical 'doing' to the mental 'managing.' This was the era where they really started to gain independence. They could find their own snacks and, more importantly, they started to see my physical needs without me saying a word. They became my 'little helpers,' naturally closing the gaps because they’d grown up watching me navigate the world differently.

But their social and extracurricular lives exploded.

Every week was a cycle of dance classes, rehearsals, and the high-pressure buildup to exams. I remember the physical challenge of those long waits—sitting on hard plastic chairs in drafty halls, my neck and pelvis screaming for the recliner, while I watched them perfect their steps. The pride of seeing them succeed in those exams was immense, but the 'invisible cost' to my body was real.

Every weekend was a birthday party in a soft-play centre or a house that wasn’t designed for me.

This is where my bandwidth was truly tested. The sensory overload from the parties and the loud music of the dance studios was immense.

I remember leaning heavily into my £20 coffee budget during these years. It wasn't just about the drink; it was the twenty minutes of stillness I needed to reset my nervous system after a chaotic party or a long afternoon at the dance school. I had to learn that saying 'no' to some social things was the only way to say 'yes' to my own health. We found our rhythm in the middle ground—less lifting, more coordinating.

love

Sunday Thoughts: The Art of Sitting Still (When the Mind is Running)

 

Dear diary,

It’s a new normal Sunday for me.

Usually, the world tells you that Sundays are for resetting, for planning the week ahead, or for going out on big family adventures. But if you’ve been following this blog for a while—or if you live with a disability or chronic illness yourself—you know that our calendars don't always look like everyone else's.

Today, my calendar just says: Rest.

I’m sitting here with a cup of tea (the third one? possibly the fourth), listening to the hum of the house. The washing machine is doing its thing in the background—a sound that always grounds me—, and I am trying, really trying, to listen to my body.

Living with Cerebral Palsy (CP) is a constant negotiation. It’s a daily board meeting between what my brain wants to do and what my body is actually willing to permit. Lately, the physical side of things has been loud. There have been twinges in my neck, pain in my foot, and that heavy, familiar fatigue that feels like wearing a coat made of lead.

In the past, I would have fought this. I would have sat here feeling guilty, looking at the dust motes dancing in the light, thinking about all the things I should be doing. I would have worried that I wasn’t being consistent enough, or loud enough, or "productive" enough.

But I’m learning that there is a difference between being "productive" and being "creative."

Because even though I am physically sitting still—because the CP demands it today—my mind is travelling at a hundred miles an hour. That is the strange, beautiful contradiction of this life. The body might be parked in the slow lane, but the imagination is racing down the motorway.

That’s actually how my latest book came to be.

You might have seen that Book 4 is finally out in the wild. It’s on Amazon now, sitting there with its shiny cover, available for anyone to read. It feels strange to say it’s "done." For months, those poems were my constant companions. They were the scribbles made in waiting rooms, the notes typed out on my phone in the middle of the night when sleep wouldn't come, and the thoughts that kept me company when I was stuck in a chair, unable to move much else.

Now that it’s out, the standard advice is to push it. Market it. Shout about it. Post about it every hour.

But that’s not really the "Sweetestmoondust" way, is it?

The book is out there. It exists. It is a branch of this tree, but it isn’t the whole tree. The tree is this—the reality of a Sunday where the biggest achievement is managing the pain levels and keeping the peace.

And besides, my brain has already moved on.

Even as I sit here nursing this tea, guarding my energy, I can feel the spark of something new starting to catch. It’s the "writer’s curse"—you finish one project, and before the ink is even dry, the next idea starts tapping on your shoulder. I’m already plotting the next thing. I won’t say too much yet (mostly because it’s still a chaotic mess of notes and daydreams), but it’s there.

It reminds me that resilience isn't always about fighting the current. Sometimes, resilience is just floating.

So, if you are reading this and feeling guilty because you aren’t "hustling" today, or because your body has forced you to stop when you wanted to go—please, take a breath with me.

You are allowed to just be. You are allowed to let the washing machine provide the soundtrack to your day. You are allowed to let your creative work be a quiet stream rather than a flood.

I am going to finish this tea. I am going to rest my neck. And I am going to let the new ideas bubble away quietly in the background while I do absolutely nothing else.

Thank you for being here, and for reading the branches of my story.

With love (and plenty of tea),

💓

The Foundation Years

Dear Diary,

Its been a long time in the coming. I have finally got my fourth book out. ""The Foundation Years" . After so many years of anxiety, waiting and so much change since the last book that was published back in 2016. 

But it's now January 2026 and "The Foundation Years " has been out for 2 weeks.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe the last one was published way back in 2016. 

So much has happened in those ten years—so much anxiety, so much waiting, and changes I never could have predicted.

Between the lockdowns and the moves, there were times when life didn’t feel safe. We had to leave the "original" home behind to find a place where we could all just be.

For a long time, I was just "planning" and waiting for the time to be right. I was carrying decades of what was never said, spending time and money on masks that just didn’t fit.

But sitting here today, I realize the "growth" I was waiting for was happening inside all along.

My home is finally clean and secure. We are safe and sound. And while I’m seeing the changes in my body as I get older, I’m finding that mentally, I’m getting so much bolder. 

The noise from what others once made is finally beginning to fade. I can join my past to my future and finally be who I want to be.

"The Foundation Years" is out. The weight is lifted. And now, I’m ready to start writing the next chapter.

Love 

🌙✨

The Rigid Years: Navigating the School Bell with CP

 

Dear diary 

It's now January 2026, and I'm looking at my calendar for this January, with all the medical appointments and 'face maintenance,' I can’t help but think back to when the little ones were five. Back then, a calendar this full felt like a battlefield.

​Ages five to seven were the 'Rigid Years.' Everything revolved around that school bell. For a mum with CP, that bell isn't just a sound; it’s a high-stakes deadline. I remember the anxiety of the school gate—standing there (or sitting in my scooter) and feeling the 'able-bodied' gaze. You wonder if the other parents see the effort it took just to get out the door with book bags and PE kits, while your own body is screaming for a rest.

​My arthritis, especially in my neck, really started to flare during this time. I wasn't changing nappies anymore, but I was constantly bending for stubborn zips and laces.

I had to be a 'Logistics Queen.' If I didn't plan the morning with precision, I’d be spent by 10 AM. I remember 'Floor Time'—wanting to be down there playing, but knowing that once I was down, getting back up was a mountain to climb. I learned to use my 3-Fold Breath on the mobility scooter after drop-off just to survive the morning. I wasn't the 'active' mum, but I was the present one." Saying yes and no, and you'll have to wait until the time is right.

While also ensuring I tried to space things out so I didn't have to go to bed too early and could have grown-up time.

Love