Hey love, imagine I’m sitting with a cuppa, just spilling my life story to you.
I grew up in a modest, cosy home in a quiet little village in Kent. There were four of us kids two older brothers, a sister and me, the youngest. Everyone called me by a bunch of nicknames: Ellie, El, even Blythe when Mum was feeling affectionate, but Dad had his own special way of saying it Blythee. Hed say it like he was rocking me on gentle summer waves, warm and right at home. I loved it, and I always asked people to call me just like Dad did.
Mum and Dad were perfectly ordinary, but its ordinary folks who make the world feel lovely. Mum worked as a shop assistant in the local high street, and Dad was a foreman at the nearby factory. They lived simply, quietly, in a sort of steady partnership where loud words were rare but a solid, silent warmth filled the house.
Dad would come in smelling of motor oil, wind and road dust, always with a sack of odd things: jars of neighbours pickles for those who couldnt pay cash, a bag of potatoes, even a watermelon hed manage to lug in at the worst possible moment. He could never walk past a plea for help.
Mum ran the household finances her little kingdom of order, tallykeeping and frugality. She never splurged, unless it was for books, classes or anything that fed the kids minds. Shed pin money to herself and Dad, but never to us.
Every Friday, like a quiet ritual, shed plop in front of the telly, pull out a box of yarn and start mending. Mum fixed all our clothes with the same patience she used to tend to us. She was softspoken, a bit roundcheeked, with thick dark hair always tied in a tight bun. I never heard her argue with Dad. They could talk for ages, low and calm, as if they shared a secret little world only they understood.
Dads chats with us were short and sweet.
Alright, kids, all good? hed say, giving each a pat on the head. Hed lift me up, toss me in the air for a split second, and Id feel like I was flying those were my favourite moments. I thought our family was pictureperfect, just like in the storybooks where everything works.
School was a different stage for me. I was noisy, bright and emotional, poetry came easy, prose even easier. By Year5 I already knew I wanted the stage, dreamed of drama school. When I told Mum, she almost spilled her tea. Dad laughed and said, Whats the matter, Blythe? Give it a go. So I chased that path rehearsals, festivals, writing little skits and greetings. One day I decided to pen a tiny book, a simple tale about a girl searching for herself.
I was nervous about anyone reading it it felt too personal, too rough. I showed it only to my best mate, Lucy. She read it and blurted out, I want to give a copy of your book to every woman who turns up at my birthday party. I thought shed misheard. What book? Those are just drafts
Lucy tilted her head, smiled gently and said, Blythe, youve given me years of friendship, pouring your heart into it. This year I want to gift your book to everyone. Its my way of saying thank you, and I can afford it. Her words threw me off. I spent two days wriggling, telling myself it was a bad idea, that it wasnt serious. But Lucy had already found a layout artist, a printer, and pushed it forward.
Itll see the light, she insisted, Everyone will love it. And it did. The little book took off because it was honest, alive, without any pretence. People saw themselves in it their fears, hopes, the truths they rarely speak aloud. It sold like hot scones, and soon folks were ordering it as gifts.
That gave me the courage to write something deeper, about my family, my roots, about those who made me who I am. That decision opened a door I wasnt ready for.
I needed to talk to Mum and Dad, to pull pieces from their past, dates, stories. I called Mum, and she answered strangely, pausing. Dad isnt here, she said. Hes away for work. Usually she knew where he was. I called Dad he sounded chipper, Hey Blythe! Im at Grans, fixing the fence. Why hadnt Mum told me that?
On the drive home I sensed there was more to her pause. When I walked in, Mum was in the kitchen. She looked up, whispered, Were not together anymore that happens sometimes. The dad and mum Id kept inside as an ideal shattered.
I could barely breathe or think. My brothers and sister had known for ages but kept quiet because Id just had a baby. We wanted to protect you, theyd said. Protect from my own family?
I drove to Dads, demanded answers. He stayed silent, stared at the floor. Mum never opened up fully, until one evening she finally snapped, What made you think we were happy, Blythe? You were a little, you didnt see everything. Wed been not talking for weeks. He never knew how to love properly. I wanted to ask why, but she just said, He told me himself.
Something inside broke. I stopped answering his calls, stopped thinking about the book, stopped being me.
Then Lucy suggested a trip to India. I laughed, Are you serious? Now? I cant I rattled off a list of excuses. Later, while telling my husband about it, he smiled and said, Go. You need this. I tried to argue, but he gently cut me off, Blythe, go. Well manage.
So I went. The retreat was run by a radiant woman named Jade Sinclair. She asked us to call her Jade. Her spiritual teacher gave her that name during a long stint at a monastery Jade meaning victory, Sinclair meaning clear. She felt like shed already untangled her own nature.
Jade was bright, not naive, but truly clearsighted. She never said no to anything; it wasnt obedience, it was acceptance. We travelled to an old stone chapel in the Yorkshire Dales that locals jokingly called the rat chapel because of the hundreds of sacred mice that lived there, believed to be ancestors spirits. We were horrified, but Jade knelt, fed the mice grain from her palm and whispered, Life doesnt always look the way we expect, but its life everywhere.
She delighted in the sun, a leaf, a blade of grass, the shade of a pine, the crooked line of clouds She lived truly in the here and now, not as a slogan but as breath.
One evening after meditation, the sky was a thick, molten sunset. Jade suggested we sit in silence on the roof of the retreat. Everyone else went back to their rooms, and I stayed. Watching the sun, I felt a mix of melancholy and loneliness.
Jade sat beside me, gazing out. She didnt ask anything, just let me feel her presence. When I exhaled heavily, she turned to me. Theres tension in your quiet, Blythe, she said. You sit still, but inside theres a storm.
I smiled, Im always like that. My mind never stops.
She replied gently, Today youre not thinking. Youre hiding. She looked at me calmly, no pressure, then added, Sometimes we stay silent not because we dont want to speak, but because were scared to hear our own truth.
Her words cut deep. I turned away, not wanting her to see my trembling lips. She continued, finetuned as if reading my thoughts:
When a woman hides the truth, she first hides it from herself. The heart always knows. Yours is restless now, like a chick looking for a safe spot.
She paused, then asked, Where did that chick come from, Blythe? Where does this anxiety stem? She stared into my heart, not my eyes. That was Jade she didnt ask outright, she simply showed the way.
I poured everything out every secret, every doubt. She listened long, then said, You love your parents so much you want to keep them together, but children dont rescue parents. Children love, then let go. Youve taken on a burden that isnt yours. You cant hold them together, and you shouldnt have to.
Tears fell. She brushed my hand, Youre a daughter, not a judge, not a peacemaker, not a therapist. Remember that. Give yourself that space and life eases up. For the first time in ages, I truly exhaled.
When I got home, the first thing I did was call Dad. Dad, Im sorry. I love you. Hear me? Silence, then a choked sob. Ive been waiting, Blythe waiting for your call.
Later I visited Mum. We sat at the kitchen table, and she became that bright, slightly shy, a bit funny woman Id always known. We talked till midnight, and I finally saw her not just as Mum but as a woman with her own story, pain, choices, freedom.
A few days later I opened my laptop and began a new book. Not about an ideal family, but a real one about love in all its shapes, the winding path, memory, acceptance, and the light that isnt where everythings perfect, but where everythings honest.
I know this time Ill write it as a woman, as Blythe, who finally found her world inside herself.
