I awoke in a sweat. Rumer’s body was entwined around my left thigh so aggressively it looked like a Christmas ham. The remains of the duvet dangling precariously across her little bottom, the rest strewn across our half packed, half unpacked suitcases.The suitcases had been neither here nor there for months. Partly ready for the adventure we risked everything on. Partly in a jumbled mess across the floor of our non permanent home. Every night I woke abruptly, squinting so desperately at a bright screen begging for an answer.Not dissimilar to 15 years earlier waiting for a pot smoking, skateboarding boyfriend to tell me his whereabouts. Except this time it was the allusive British Government. Six months earlier, on a typical pre storm summers evening, Jimmy & I sat on the balcony, overlooking the diamond sparkle of our pool, watching one child bush poo & the other 3 courses deep in a chalk degustation. The view from the outside was of completion; the house, the kids, the stability. But it was just one too many ambiguous glances.The combined pursuit of contentment.And the fact that we were acutely aware of our deluded sense of normality that we began taking ourselves & this well thought out life so seriously we could barely stand it. ‘Shall we move to London’ he said staring out at the garden he’d just perfected. ‘Yes’ I said googling ‘Prada Puffer coats’. In our usual style, it wasn’t the result of well thought out plans or months of preparation - the house went on the market the following week.I understand now, in a much wiser & profound way that this was the only way it could have happened. For the next few weeks I packed with a kind of urgency that one would if they’d forgotten a flight. It was like I’d waited my whole life for this kind of thrill. The playing it safe act was done and although it had brought a loving husband & 2 amazing kids into my life, it wasn’t living. It was exisiting in a way that I’d been conditioned. Like I was bouncing a tennis ball against a wall by myself for 35 years. And isn’t it a fundamental human truth that only once you become a Mother you realise how much was really possible, just not now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when they’re grown. Maybe never. Small risks keep our hearts beating because we’re told the larger ones are designated for the young and childless. The next few week are a blur; a Sold sign, a packed rent-a-space, a Coco Republic lounge being crushed by a collection truck, a gloating at how easy the visa application (being almost a decade long wife to a UK citizen) process was & of course explaining / somewhat justifying the move to family, friends, strangers. Most people find it much simpler if you’re within their understanding box. An easily digestible life, values, desires. No yearning or if so, silent yearning compressed by what’s safe and familiar. If you step outside this box, you’re a trigger point for all their suppressed dreams & you become well, indigestible. Most of us are so fearful of change, not just for ourselves but for any of the familiarity around us. Once you veer from of this you’ll feel vulnerable & completely segregated. And it takes years of inner work to understand that this is just a reflection of their ignorance & indifference rather than a dislike of you personally. You’ll only ever get to measure your growth by moving, changing. So there we were, standing alone but steadfast & living our truth, terrified of what was ahead but more terrified of what was behind. The last night in the house, and 2 nights before our flight, we stuck to the usual routine ignoring empty rooms & a missing visa.A 2am Rumer-has-gas wake up saw the ‘visa denied’ email entering my inbox. By 2.07am I was on the phone to an immigration lawyer I was recommended months earlier but didn’t utilise. The minor error I made was pinpointed immediately but wouldn’t escape the back of the queue punishment. A 4am half asleep, half heartbroken, completely consumed by self pity, the decision was made for the boys to go forth. Roman to start school. The boys to set up home while the girls remained. Upon assurance the wait would be at the very worst, 12 weeks. I found solace in knowing I’d have up to 3 months with Mum, friends. Tying up loose ends. Saying goodbye properly and wholeheartedly. So onwards they went. I held Roman like one of my vital organs had escaped. I smelled him in the hopes it would stay in my nostrils for 12 weeks, kissing every inch of his available skin. He didn’t understand. Neither did I at the time.They left. Then a war broke out. ‘At least 24 weeks’ she shakily said.‘Do you want to proceed?’ I held the phone to my ear at midnight. Rumer asleep still clutching my hand in the room I grew up in. The room I cried over boyfriends & bitchy friends. The room I would pretend I had a husband and kids, dreaming of being that lucky.The room I wished my Dad back to life.And now the room where by our choices, our dreams, our search, I’d been told I’d not see my child for 24 weeks.I felt unworthy of sadness or frustration. We’d chosen this. And they were prioritising families fleeing from war. But my heart. There’s something otherworldly about a Mothers love; they are our life force, our pulsing veins, our internal stabilisers, our axis.To not feel them close to you, to help them tie a shoe, eat a meal, wipe away their warm tears is like functioning with half a heart. You become slow, sluggish. Everything aches. Problem solvers and ideas people explained that they could simply come back. Almost like I hadn’t considered that. But there was no home anymore. No car. No school. No belongings. Jet lag had engulfed Roman for weeks & Rumer had said goodbye to her Dad already, I couldn’t do that to either of them again. And after all, it wouldn’t be 6 months or more.It wouldn’t. It couldn’t. 6 months to the day was the approval.6 months of no one to contact. No email address, no hotline, no begging.6 months of checking emails throughout the night & sobbing in the early hours. 6 months of aching for my child. Of understanding that life as a Mum can be tormenting, monotonous, isolating. We become so disconnected that our desire to be apart from them is so acute that we forget how to really be with them. But here I was, without him and the pain of that pulsated through me like a slow torture. It was 6 months of ‘let’s give up’ phone calls, crying into my pillow, people asking how I’m doing and me replying ‘fine’ wondering if they could hear my soul crumbling in the response. And I’ve realised there’s a huge difference between honest outward projections and guarded ones. Feeling unworthy of sympathy because of your privileged life and acting stoic so the ‘I told you so’ humdrums can be silenced. But what I learnt is there’s something endearing, profound about being vulnerable. It’s a way of determining whether the choices you’ve made, sacrifices and all, are met with inner praise or inner disgust regardless of how they are received by others. By outwardly & openly challenging the future you’d pathed for yourself and the comfort that gave those around you, you find yourself in a way you never deemed possible. And here I am, the other end feeling almost like I’ve been to rock bottom and back. With a real understanding of life and all it’s facets, complications, tests and knowing really what we can all endure and thrive from. I learnt at 23 that the worst possible outcome is death. My Dad never bought his Harley Davidson, he never pursued his love of music or took the left field opportunities that were presented to him. He played it safe for us and by doing so, he broke his own heart and he wore that openly for all the years i knew him. This move was about the love of family & the pursuit of togetherness. But it was also about our collective desire to instil in our children that change isn’t terrifying. That change can be therapeutic, thrilling, necessary. That within a loving, supportive, nurturing family unit anywhere can be home, anything can be comfortable & everything is possible.stack
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The Beginning ...
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I awoke in a sweat. Rumer’s body was entwined around my left thigh so aggressively it looked like a Christmas ham. The remains of the duvet dangling precariously across her little bottom, the rest strewn across our half packed, half unpacked suitcases.The suitcases had been neither here nor there for months. Partly ready for the adventure we risked everything on. Partly in a jumbled mess across the floor of our non permanent home. Every night I woke abruptly, squinting so desperately at a bright screen begging for an answer.Not dissimilar to 15 years earlier waiting for a pot smoking, skateboarding boyfriend to tell me his whereabouts. Except this time it was the allusive British Government. Six months earlier, on a typical pre storm summers evening, Jimmy & I sat on the balcony, overlooking the diamond sparkle of our pool, watching one child bush poo & the other 3 courses deep in a chalk degustation. The view from the outside was of completion; the house, the kids, the stability. But it was just one too many ambiguous glances.The combined pursuit of contentment.And the fact that we were acutely aware of our deluded sense of normality that we began taking ourselves & this well thought out life so seriously we could barely stand it. ‘Shall we move to London’ he said staring out at the garden he’d just perfected. ‘Yes’ I said googling ‘Prada Puffer coats’. In our usual style, it wasn’t the result of well thought out plans or months of preparation - the house went on the market the following week.I understand now, in a much wiser & profound way that this was the only way it could have happened. For the next few weeks I packed with a kind of urgency that one would if they’d forgotten a flight. It was like I’d waited my whole life for this kind of thrill. The playing it safe act was done and although it had brought a loving husband & 2 amazing kids into my life, it wasn’t living. It was exisiting in a way that I’d been conditioned. Like I was bouncing a tennis ball against a wall by myself for 35 years. And isn’t it a fundamental human truth that only once you become a Mother you realise how much was really possible, just not now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when they’re grown. Maybe never. Small risks keep our hearts beating because we’re told the larger ones are designated for the young and childless. The next few week are a blur; a Sold sign, a packed rent-a-space, a Coco Republic lounge being crushed by a collection truck, a gloating at how easy the visa application (being almost a decade long wife to a UK citizen) process was & of course explaining / somewhat justifying the move to family, friends, strangers. Most people find it much simpler if you’re within their understanding box. An easily digestible life, values, desires. No yearning or if so, silent yearning compressed by what’s safe and familiar. If you step outside this box, you’re a trigger point for all their suppressed dreams & you become well, indigestible. Most of us are so fearful of change, not just for ourselves but for any of the familiarity around us. Once you veer from of this you’ll feel vulnerable & completely segregated. And it takes years of inner work to understand that this is just a reflection of their ignorance & indifference rather than a dislike of you personally. You’ll only ever get to measure your growth by moving, changing. So there we were, standing alone but steadfast & living our truth, terrified of what was ahead but more terrified of what was behind. The last night in the house, and 2 nights before our flight, we stuck to the usual routine ignoring empty rooms & a missing visa.A 2am Rumer-has-gas wake up saw the ‘visa denied’ email entering my inbox. By 2.07am I was on the phone to an immigration lawyer I was recommended months earlier but didn’t utilise. The minor error I made was pinpointed immediately but wouldn’t escape the back of the queue punishment. A 4am half asleep, half heartbroken, completely consumed by self pity, the decision was made for the boys to go forth. Roman to start school. The boys to set up home while the girls remained. Upon assurance the wait would be at the very worst, 12 weeks. I found solace in knowing I’d have up to 3 months with Mum, friends. Tying up loose ends. Saying goodbye properly and wholeheartedly. So onwards they went. I held Roman like one of my vital organs had escaped. I smelled him in the hopes it would stay in my nostrils for 12 weeks, kissing every inch of his available skin. He didn’t understand. Neither did I at the time.They left. Then a war broke out. ‘At least 24 weeks’ she shakily said.‘Do you want to proceed?’ I held the phone to my ear at midnight. Rumer asleep still clutching my hand in the room I grew up in. The room I cried over boyfriends & bitchy friends. The room I would pretend I had a husband and kids, dreaming of being that lucky.The room I wished my Dad back to life.And now the room where by our choices, our dreams, our search, I’d been told I’d not see my child for 24 weeks.I felt unworthy of sadness or frustration. We’d chosen this. And they were prioritising families fleeing from war. But my heart. There’s something otherworldly about a Mothers love; they are our life force, our pulsing veins, our internal stabilisers, our axis.To not feel them close to you, to help them tie a shoe, eat a meal, wipe away their warm tears is like functioning with half a heart. You become slow, sluggish. Everything aches. Problem solvers and ideas people explained that they could simply come back. Almost like I hadn’t considered that. But there was no home anymore. No car. No school. No belongings. Jet lag had engulfed Roman for weeks & Rumer had said goodbye to her Dad already, I couldn’t do that to either of them again. And after all, it wouldn’t be 6 months or more.It wouldn’t. It couldn’t. 6 months to the day was the approval.6 months of no one to contact. No email address, no hotline, no begging.6 months of checking emails throughout the night & sobbing in the early hours. 6 months of aching for my child. Of understanding that life as a Mum can be tormenting, monotonous, isolating. We become so disconnected that our desire to be apart from them is so acute that we forget how to really be with them. But here I was, without him and the pain of that pulsated through me like a slow torture. It was 6 months of ‘let’s give up’ phone calls, crying into my pillow, people asking how I’m doing and me replying ‘fine’ wondering if they could hear my soul crumbling in the response. And I’ve realised there’s a huge difference between honest outward projections and guarded ones. Feeling unworthy of sympathy because of your privileged life and acting stoic so the ‘I told you so’ humdrums can be silenced. But what I learnt is there’s something endearing, profound about being vulnerable. It’s a way of determining whether the choices you’ve made, sacrifices and all, are met with inner praise or inner disgust regardless of how they are received by others. By outwardly & openly challenging the future you’d pathed for yourself and the comfort that gave those around you, you find yourself in a way you never deemed possible. And here I am, the other end feeling almost like I’ve been to rock bottom and back. With a real understanding of life and all it’s facets, complications, tests and knowing really what we can all endure and thrive from. I learnt at 23 that the worst possible outcome is death. My Dad never bought his Harley Davidson, he never pursued his love of music or took the left field opportunities that were presented to him. He played it safe for us and by doing so, he broke his own heart and he wore that openly for all the years i knew him. This move was about the love of family & the pursuit of togetherness. But it was also about our collective desire to instil in our children that change isn’t terrifying. That change can be therapeutic, thrilling, necessary. That within a loving, supportive, nurturing family unit anywhere can be home, anything can be comfortable & everything is possible.stack