Some weeks start with coffee.
Mine started with a crash.
Just before 5am on Thursday, I was yanked out of sleep by the sound of metal crunching and a car alarm blaring. My stomach dropped. I knew that sound. Joel’s alarm.
Some guy came flying down my road, way too fast, and smashed into Joel’s parked car—so hard it shoved it forward two feet and shattered the wheel. I was out there in seconds, in my leopard print nighty and a cardigan, heart hammering, absolutely buzzing with adrenaline.
The driver? Completely out of it. Slumped in the car, barely responsive. I called an ambulance. That’s all I could do. Just stood there, trying to keep calm while my body was screaming this is not normal, this is not safe.
And—because this is my life—one of the firemen turned out to be Joel’s cousin. So there I was: leopard print, wild hair, mascara smudged from the night before, standing in the road like a chaotic Victorian ghost meeting extended family for the first time. Iconic, really.
But the crash wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was what it brought up.
That creeping fear.
That gut-deep bracing.
The “what now?”
The “how bad is this going to get?”
The old fear that something small will snowball, that I’ll be snapped at, punished, blamed.
Because that used to be the pattern. And some part of me still expects it—even now, even with Joel.
But he didn’t shout. He didn’t panic. He didn’t blame. He didn’t throw it back at me like a weapon.
He was just calm. Steady. Practical.
The kind of safe that feels almost alien when you’ve lived through the opposite.
I worked from home so he could take my car for work and to get Luca sorted. I was still shaky, my brain flicking between autopilot and anxiety. Even messaging work made me nervous, half-expecting someone to say no or act like it was an inconvenience. But they didn’t. It was fine. It was all fine.
And then—like it was nothing—Joel filled my tank with petrol. Brought me lunch. Bought me flowers. Just quietly… cared. Didn’t wait to be asked. Just saw me.
I forget sometimes how gentle love can be.
After work, I picked up Tilly and spent a few hours with her and the other mums while the kids played. I tried to act normal, like my heart wasn’t still buzzing. By 8pm, I was wiped. I collapsed into bed and slept like I hadn’t slept in weeks.
Because honestly? I hadn’t.
Not that kind of sleep. The kind where you finally stop bracing. Where your chest softens and your mind isn’t constantly scanning for danger. The kind of sleep that whispers, “you’re safe now.”
And I didn’t realise how much I still carry…
Until that morning reminded me.
But maybe I don’t have to carry it alone anymore.