May really said:
“Here, have some beautiful core memories… now survive this emotional boss battle immediately afterwards.”
Honestly, this month has felt like the universe handing me a sunbeam with one hand and a folding chair to the back of the head with the other.
There were genuinely beautiful moments. The kind I know I’ll remember years from now.
Sunny days with Joel.
Costa frappes before wandering around town.
Sea swims at Pembroke with salty skin and that first freezing shock of summer water.
Laughing on the beach while the children played.
Joel joining us after work.
Little moments where life felt soft instead of sharp.
There was also something quietly huge this month:
a little trial run of life together.
A few days of sharing a home properly with Joel and Luca instead of existing in the in-between spaces between houses, routines, custody schedules, and logistics.
And for the first time in eighteen months, something shifted.
Luca softened with me.
Not forced. Not awkward. Just… natural.
Random cuddles. Kindness. Wanting me involved. Little moments that probably looked tiny from the outside but felt enormous to me.
Because blended families are strange, fragile things at first. They don’t grow instantly. They grow in tiny moments of trust repeated over and over until one day you realise something has changed.
I think this month gave me a glimpse of what home might eventually feel like.
There were exciting things too — huge things.
House offers. Future plans. The beginning of packing up twenty years of my life. Standing in rooms that have held entire versions of me and realising I’m about to leave them behind.
That alone feels enormous.
And somewhere between all of that:
heatwaves, gut bugs, stress spirals, mortgage maths, exhaustion, parenting worries, overthinking, OCD loops, financial spreadsheets, paint samples, and my nervous system acting like we’re being hunted for sport.
I swear adulthood is just:
“Congratulations! Here is your beautiful future. Unfortunately, to unlock it, you must first survive twelve side quests, three panic attacks, a digestive illness, and an email from a solicitor.”
Still… despite all of it… there were moments this month where I stopped and thought:
This is what surviving was for.
Not perfection.
Not peace.
Just moments.
Beach sunsets.
Fresh bedding after a hard day.
Tiny victories.
A new piercing that felt more me.
Planning rooms in a house that doesn’t even belong to us yet and daring to feel excited anyway.
I think that’s what May was really about:
learning that joy and exhaustion can exist in the exact same breath.
So June, listen carefully.
I am tired, boss.
I’m not asking for miracles.
I’d simply appreciate it if you could stop trying to fight me in the car park at 2pm.
Thanks.