When You Think You Have Nothing Left: How to Begin Again.
In the mist of these mountains, I'm learning that starting over isn't weakness, Gran. It's rebellion in its quietest form.
Dear Gran,
I woke at 4 am this morning. The mountains were hidden in mist, the trees blurred, the world hushed. Even the pigs were still. And I knew, quietly and completely, that something had to give.
I had to leave the farm to save myself.
It felt like grief, Gran. That familiar slipping of ground beneath your feet - you'd know that feeling. It's the same one that came for me eight years ago, when I was 49 and everything I thought I'd built came tumbling down. I didn't know what came next then either. I couldn't even get out of bed.
But somehow, I did. Just like you always said I would.
I have that same feeling today, rising from the pit of my stomach. What now? But this time, I'm not as frightened. Because I've been here before, and you taught me that breaking doesn't mean broken.
The Lessons You'd Want Me to Remember.
Back then, when I lost everything, I found my way through slowly. Quietly. A little broken but still moving. These are the things I did when I was made redundant, when I thought I couldn't do anything at all. The things you'd nod at and say, "That's my girl."
I held onto my dignity.
Even through the anger and the shock, the unbearable unfairness of being let go after six years of pouring everything into a company I loved. I somehow managed to breathe, smile, and walk out with my head held high.
I had to, Gran. My team needed me to be calm. And somewhere deep down - in that place where your voice still whispers - my gut told me I'd be all right. I didn't believe it, but I listened. Just like you taught me.
I stayed professional, even when it hurt.
There's something surreal about hearing life-changing news delivered like someone's reading a manual. No emotion, no warmth, just bullet points that feel like bullet wounds.
When they told me I'd be put on gardening leave, after I'd just finished those painful consultations with my team - telling them they were being made redundant - I knew the end had come.
I wanted to scream, Gran. You'd understand that fury.
Instead, I said, "Thank you. It was my job." I don't know where that strength came from, but I think it was your voice coming through mine. Sometimes we surprise ourselves, don't we?
I asked the hard question: What do I actually want?
When someone first asked me, "What do you want, Caroline?" I had no answer. None. It devastated me. I'd spent so long taking care of others, climbing ladders, being useful, that I'd forgotten how to want something just for myself.
You knew this about me, didn't you? How I'd lost myself in all that doing.
Redundancy gave me the gift of space. It forced me to sit with the silence and slowly listen for the whisper of what I might love. I'm still listening, still learning. But I'm closer than I was.
I stopped panicking.
At first, I applied for jobs out of sheer panic. Sent emails to old contacts. Tried to force a return to an industry I knew I didn't want anymore. I couldn't bear the idea of drifting.
But when I finally stopped grasping, something else came through - the dream I'd buried for years: I wanted to travel. I'd always wanted to travel, remember? All those stories you told me about countries you'd been to and places you’d never seen.
So I booked a flight to New Zealand, even though it terrified me. I trusted that the ground would appear under my feet once I jumped. Faith over fear, just like you always said.
I reached out to family.
For years, work and motherhood came first. Family came only when I had time. Suddenly, I had time. I hadn't seen Mum in two years. My brother and sister lived in different corners of the world. My nieces and nephews couldn't pick me out of a lineup.
I didn't want to be just the reliable one anymore. I wanted to be present, to show up. So I sent the messages. I made the visits. And I let them support me, even when I didn't know how to ask.
You'd have loved seeing us all together again, Gran.
I made my bed.
Every morning, I made my bed. Like we did in the Navy. Like we were taught at school. One simple thing to remind me I was still here.
And then I moved. I exercised, even when I didn't want to. Running, walking, cycling. I pulled on my leggings, and if I didn't go out, I called myself lazy. Not cruelly - just with that no-nonsense voice I carry inside me. Your voice, I think.
Because I knew that movement makes something shift in the body, in the mind. The happy hormones kicked in eventually. And that little bit of pride kept me going for the rest of the day.
I let the unexpected in.
On the day I dropped the cat off at the "cat hotel" before leaving for New Zealand, I met a woman tending to her horses. I must have looked like I was about to snap, because she said, "Embrace it. You asked for this. Stop dwelling. Life's unexpected. That's the only certainty."
I've carried her words ever since, Gran. They sound like something you'd say.
I'm a control freak at heart - you knew that about me. I want to plan the outcome, manage the chaos. But sometimes we have to surrender. Sometimes we have to trust that the next step will appear even when we can't see the path.
I left.
I booked the ticket. I left the life I'd outgrown. I travelled through New Zealand, and then on to other places I'd only dreamed about.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn't fine.
I was alive.
I realised that regret weighs heavier than fear, and that sometimes the life you thought you'd missed is still there, waiting patiently in the wings.
I look back now and I barely recognise the woman who couldn't get out of bed. But I honour her, Gran. Brave in stillness. Courageous in fear. She didn't give up; she began with the tiniest steps, one by one.
And now, as I stand here in the mist again, I pray I can remember her. I can find that strength again, as I let go of everything I've built to save myself.
Because that's the thing about breaking: it strips you down to what matters. It's quiet and it's lonely, but it makes space for something new. Eight years ago, I found my way back, not in leaps but in slow, steady inches - one made bed, one phone call, one walk around the block at a time.
And I know I can do it again.
You taught me that. In your quiet way, in your steady presence, in the way you never gave up even when everything hurt. You showed me that beginning again isn't just possible - it's what saves us.
If anyone reading this is standing where I am now, unsure, afraid, unravelled - start small. Make your bed. Step outside. Breathe in the air that proves you're still here. One step is enough. And then another.
Because beginning again isn't weakness. It's rebellion in its quietest form.
From the quiet of the mountains, walking beside you.