Knitting for Leo – A Short Story

20/06/202024/06/2021Jo Caddy

We’d like to thank Alex Grey of the UK for her touching short story “Knitting for Leo”.

After a lifetime of writing technical non-fiction, Alex Grey is fulfilling her dream of writing poems and stories that engage the reader’s emotions. Her ingredients for contentment are narrowboating, greyhounds, singing and chocolate – it’s a sweet life. Her poems and short stories have been published by a number of ezines including Siren’s Call, Raconteur and Toasted Cheese. One of her comic poems is also available via a worldwide network of public fiction dispensers managed by publisher Short Edition. Alex is not a mum, but she works in healthcare and this story comes from her compassion for the women who have shared their lives with her over the years.

You can read Alex’s blog HERE

Note: this story mentions still birth and is a work of fiction and not based on any identifiable individual.

This page contains affiliate links which may earn me a small commission (at no extra cost to you) if you click through and make a purchase. Affiliate links are how I keep this blog running, thank you.

Photo by Annisa Ica on Unsplash

Knitting For Leo

My mother taught me to knit.

Back then, knitting was a necessity, not some artisan craft like it is today. She would get patterns from Women’s magazines and cheap wool from the market. She knitted my clothes – sweaters, cardigans, even skirts. I was the eldest. As soon as I could hold a pair of needles, I was knitting booties for my baby brother and sister.

I got married in 1969, when you could buy wool in every colour that you could imagine. I was eighteen, but I already knew how to keep a house. Calum worked long hours, keen to get on in his career and be a good provider. I had a part-time job in our local greengrocers. In the evenings, we’d sit by the fire in our terraced house. It was before we had a television, so we’d talk about the future, about the children that we’d have. I’d knit and he’d do the crossword in the newspaper. I knitted tank tops for him to wear to work – he had a different one for every day of the month. Years later he admitted that he got teased by the other juniors. But my Calum was a hard worker, and the teasing stopped when he kept getting promoted.

Calum was already a manager by the time I fell pregnant. Lucky that he had enough tank tops, because as soon as I started to show I stopped knitting for him. I bought some new wool, all soft pastel yellow and lilac, and started knitting for the baby. My friends said it was bad luck to knit for the baby too soon, but I wanted to be ready.

I thought I must be carrying a boy, a footballer judging by the kicking. Calum was very modern, he liked to lie by my side with his hand on my bump, feeling every movement. The basket I kept in the new nursery soon filled with clothes – judging by the size of the bump he was going to be a whopper. I started getting nervous about giving birth, but the midwife said I was young and had nothing to worry about.

The kicking stopped when I was 37 weeks.

I remember that night – I slept for 8 hours, my longest sleep since I fell pregnant. I woke up all rested and, for a minute, everything seemed fine, but my bump did not wake up with me. I begged for my baby to start kicking again, but he was still. The hospital induced the birth, I had to go through it, but they knew it was all for nothing. I caught a glimpse of him before they wrapped him in a towel and swept him away. He looked so perfect, like he was sleeping. I wanted to hold him, but they said it was better for me not to see him, to move on quickly, a strong young girl like me could try again soon enough, these things happened.

There was no death certificate because he had never lived. Yet in our hearts, he was always Leo, due in August, our fierce little lion who almost made it.

We carried our grief out of the hospital door and swaddled it with our hopes in the little basket of baby clothes I’d knitted. I burned them all.

Of course, we tried again and within the year we had a beautiful baby girl; two years later, our son was born. I stopped knitting. Honestly, who has time to knit with two young children and a husband working all hours?

Late at night, though, I’d hear Calum sobbing quietly beside me and knew he’d never got over losing Leo, just as I’d never got over the feeling that my knitting had cursed our firstborn. There was no emery board that could remove the festering hangnail of our hidden grief.

Calum lived long enough to walk his daughter down the aisle and to stand shoulder to shoulder with his son when he was wed. When our first grandchild was born, I realised that I had not seen Calum smile like that since the day that I first fell pregnant and our future had sparkled with undimmed hope.

I brooded on it after Calum’s funeral, how his poor heart had flexed with grief and joy, like the metal fatigue in those planes that crashed, destroyed by a hidden stress.

It was then I decided to tell my children about Leo. They didn’t know, you see, because we didn’t talk about these things back then. They were…surprising. They cried, but with relief, they said they had always felt that there was something, someone, missing. We had Leo’s name carved onto Calum’s headstone and I started to knit again.

I live with my daughter now. I have a lovely apartment with plenty of space for my comfy recliner chair. I have everything I need, a TV, my knitting needles and a pile of wool given to me by kind donors. It’s all colours and textures, but that doesn’t matter. Once I picked up the needles again, my fingers remembered the old patterns, so I can sit here watching my favourite shows while I make babygro’s, bootees and cute berets to keep the babies’ heads warm.

My daughter knocks on my door.

“Mum, the driver’s here.”

“That’s fine love, I’ve got a load ready for him.”

I hand her a neatly wrapped box, the label says “Knitting for Leo” along with a charity registration number. This batch is going to our local hospital, but I send parcels to maternity units all over the country. You see, Leo’s charity got quite big once my daughter mentioned it on the internet. We must have over a hundred volunteer knitters now, each with their own sad tale to tell.

I knit tiny clothes that would fit a doll, or a baby born too soon and too still. I finish each little outfit with a ribbon and put it in the basket by my side. I imagine how parents will take these tiny clothes and dress their stillborn babies. They will hold their precious bodies, take photographs. In that moment, the quiet infants will become part of their families forever.

I raise a cup of tea to the dead who never lived.

You never lived, but you were loved. Rest easy my son.

Thanks

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‘Domesticating Mom’ with guest blogger Almondie Shampine

26/12/2019Jo Caddy

Some of you may remember a Mum Life Story I posted back in October about a mum named Almondie Shampine. Almondie told us of her experience of being a working mum and how her perceptions and goals changed after her health took a turn for the worst. Now a stay at home mum, author, blogger and a book publisher she has graciously decided to share with us once again.

This touching, thought-provoking article describes the evolution of a Mother from a teen mum to a mum of teens and how her desperate cry for freedom was extinguished by the love of her children.

This page contains affiliate links which may earn me a commission (at no extra cost to you) if you click through and make a purchase. Affiliate links are how I keep this blog running, thank you.

Photo by Katie Emslie on Unsplash

‘The Institute’ by Stephen King (Buy it now)

Domesticating Mom

11/5/19

I’m 37 today.

(Funny, aside of me visualizing a little dance, swaying my arms in front of me and behind me, while singing ‘It’s my birthday. It’s my birthday.’)

I hated my birthday for a good three or more decades. I’m sure many can relate. The birthday goes downhill the moment one’s mind gets caught up on it being ‘a special day’, and the expectations are quick to follow. One minor disappointment thus leads to frenzied overcompensation to make it ‘the best birthday ever’. It becomes an emotional roller coaster, as what goes up must inevitably come down, and special occasions are full of those ups and downs.

I became a teen parent, pregnant in my 18th year of life. Instead of sending out my wedding invitations, which had been the original plan, I was making phone calls to share the news of my pregnancy with the shamed side note that there wouldn’t be a wedding, as my then-fiance had walked, taking all my dreams of my desired and aspired-for future with him and changing the entire course of my life.

A whole life ahead of me, a life I’d barely just begun, and I was to be a Mom, first and foremost, for the rest of my life, and a single Mom, at that. Three years away from being able to have a legal cocktail, yet responsible for raising and supporting a tiny human all on my own. I could no longer fit in with people my age due to being a Mom. When they were partying downstairs or next door to me, I would outwardly complain that their music was too loud, their swearing too much, or that the stench of their pot-smoking was making its way into my apartment, while feelings of loneliness and betrayal ate away at me on the inside, because they’d been my friends, and not a single one of them made that 13-step trek up the stairs or took the three steps next door to my apartment to see how I was doing – not throughout my pregnancy or thereafter. They’d stopped inviting me, stopped asking me to drive them places, stopped even asking if we could talk or if I could give them advice on something they were going through. It was as though I just stopped existing.

I began frequenting places where I could find other Moms, such as parks, and tried making friends with coworkers that had kids, but they looked at me like I was too young and would treat me like the ‘typical teenager’ that I couldn’t be, wasn’t allowed to be, and would never be able to be. Many times I made the mistake of thinking that interested males were making the choice of wanting to be with me, while accepting I had a child. I assumed that meant they knew that I was looking for commitment, so it would devastate me when, after the fact, they’d tell me they weren’t ready for a family, or didn’t want to be a family guy. It confounded me to no end. Until I watched movies like American Pie and all-the-rage young adult movies at that time that talked about MILFS, single moms being perceived as ‘being more experienced’, and the idea that single moms or older or more mature women were great for casual affairs, but nothing more than that. This led to many years of false hopes.

Time was my enemy. It was torture. Being so young, it seemed to pass intolerably slow. It was only thoughts of the future that kept me dragging myself out of bed most days on so little sleep. At first, it was just waiting for me to be old enough for people to start respecting me and taking me seriously. I creeped through my 19th year; my 20th year passed even more slowly. My 21st birthday was celebrated with my Mom, because I’d lost all my friends. For a short time, between my 21st and 22nd year, I believed I’d found the person I’d spend my life with, and the years prior faded away as having all been worth it during that time. …Until he disclosed that he didn’t want to be a family guy after it was disclosed to him that I was carrying his child. 0 for 2. 2 children conceived from 2 different guys that weren’t ready to be a father by the time I was 22. I could kiss any future, healthy prospective relationship goodbye; nor could I ever hope to be respected for anything other than being that single Mom with two kids from two different fathers.

My 22nd birthday was spent pregnant and alone, just like my 19th. My 23rd spent trying to get back on my feet after having lost everything due to childcare being more than I could make with a full-time job. My 24th was spent battling for my life. Single Mom, poor, living in the worst (cheapest) side of the city, not having any friends or any family that would even notice my absence for quite some time, made me a really easy target for predators. That was the year I began counting down the days. Every exhausted night before bed, I would put an x on the calendar marking the end of another day. I began celebrating the end of every week, the end of every month, the end of every year. It showed me forward movement. The passage of time.

Every birthday, I hated, because all it meant to me was just the beginning of a new year, where I’d have to fight through another 364 days to get to the end of it. I’d count down the years of my children being grown. 15 more years. 12 more years. 10 more years. All I could feel was time just looming ahead. So much time. Too much time. Every year I was crushed with the overwhelming anxiety that I would not be able to make it through another year. I’d barely made it through the last, how would I possibly make it through another? I felt terribly alone. Terribly lonely.

My heart had been made to love. I was a lover. A nurturer. A helper. I wanted a family. A full family. A true family. I wanted a partner to share my life with. I wanted the forever. I wanted marriage. I wanted the growing-old with someone. I needed deep connections. Needed someone I could call my best friend. I felt like a neglected flower – once so full of bloom and vibrancy, wilting and withering away to decay.

I waited for people my age to catch up to me. I watched them form partnerships, get married, and begin families of their own. I looked forward to cookouts, our kids getting together, family-oriented celebrations and parties, but still, I didn’t belong. My kids didn’t belong. I was never invited, nor would anyone else show when I threw cookouts of my own. My kids were much older than their kids. Those parents were married living married life. The last thing they wanted was a young single mother, a bachelorette, walking around to remind their men of the single life. I would try to make friends with my children’s friend’s parents, but my youth and my being unmarried maintained me as being the oddball out.

‘Mangoes & Monkey bread’ by Emily Joop (Buy it now)

Every future hope that would keep me waking to the present and keep me tackling each and every day would never come to pass, where I’d grasp on to another future hope, all relative to the passage of time, to my children getting older with me inevitably getting older alongside them. Me holding onto the optimistic view of it being a good thing I started my family young because I’d still be fairly young when they were grown, was crucial towards my continued hopes that one day … One day things would be different.

One day I’d be able to go on those road trips. One day I’d be able to experience that youth I missed out on. One day I’d be able to go bar-hopping, or go dancing, or be able to have a fancy date. One day I’d know what it’s like to go to a spa, or to a hairdresser, and I’d know what it’s like to spoil myself, pamper my body, get all dressed up and go out on the town. One day I’d be able to attract a decent man without him being turned off by me having children, and I’d be able to have friends and go out to eat and be a human being, a person, a woman, and not just a Mom. I’d be able to cherish romance and walk around naked again and spend an entire day luxuriating in physical pleasantries and allowing myself to feel love, both the giving and the receiving of it, uninhibited. I’d finally be able to live my dreams fully, and commit myself to them 100 percent, instead of so frequently having to put them on the backburner. I’d finally be able to have the life I was supposed to have, the life I was meant to have.

All these years I thought I was raising and grooming my children to get them to the point of being adults. I thought I was getting them through all the developmental milestones of being full grown. I thought I was training them to survive independently, self-sufficiently from me. As a mom, it was my number one job to support them, provide them safety and security, guide them through their growing years, teach them how to overcome those obstacles in life – first, to carry them, second, to be their step-ladder, and third, to be their spotter as they made their way over those hurdles all on their own. It was my sacrifice to them. 18 years of putting their needs, wants, dreams, desires, over my own while my life remained dormant. On pause. Waiting. Waiting for the time when I could start living again.

37 years old. I’m celebrating the passage of those 18 birthdays that I waited for for so long. I’m looking back. Shaking my head in wonder. Realizing that I’d gotten it all wrong all along. Like a wild feral cat that only lives for their own survival, their own comfort, their own needs and desires, I was captured in a crate just by the beating of my kids’ hearts, imprisoned within a home that always had to have heat, and food, and a place to sleep. No matter how much I mewled and scratched at the door to escape, they would distract my attention away by wanting to play with me or forcing me to curl up with them. They never left me unsupervised, and would always call me back if I strayed too far.

They forced me to take care of myself. Made me get up when all I wanted to do was sleep. Made me eat when all I wanted to do was starve. Made me fight to live for everyday I felt like dying, and even saved my life when I actually was dying. They urged me to swim when I was drowning and made me weather every storm. First, they taught me to climb mountains, and then they made me move them. They showed me that no obstacle is too high and that dead-end roads are only an illusion -there’s no end of the road, only a road not yet built. They showed me that the only thing truly impossible in my life was the ability to give up. They were scrupulous and rigid. Demanding and inflexible. They’d conditioned me by rewarding me with happiness when I was on my best behaviors, and simply ignoring me when I was not. Not once did they give up hope. Not once did they lose faith. No matter how much I resisted.

With patience and unrelenting vigor, they kept at it, day after day, week after week, year after year, for 18 years. And then on this birthday, they gave me my most-desired gift. They opened the door and they offered me my freedom. “You deserve it, Mom. Go have fun. It’s your special day. Do whatever you want.” I stood at the door, looking out, listening for that call of the wild that had been so strong and enticing for so many years; it sounded so differently than it did before. Cold. Dark. Mournful. Lonely. Miserable.

That’s when I knew. All along, my children had been grooming me for 18 years. Taming me. Domesticating me. I never would have survived out there in the wild. My heart too big. I was never cut out to be a hunter or to prey on other things. Nor was I ever capable of running with a pack. I wasn’t a follower, but neither did I have what it took to lead. I would have been the hunted of the hunter, the preyed upon of the predator, the hider of the seeker. Instead, my children provided me safety and security, warmth and belonging, nurture and affection, and a forever family, giving me my best chance to become my best self. All while letting me believe that I was raising them and providing them the tools they needed to survive without me, it was they all along providing me the skills I needed to survive without them.

Almondie

You can visit Almondie’s website at www.freebirdexpresspublishing.com or follow her blog at www.freebirdexpresspublishing.blogspot.com

If your on Quora, you’ll find her profile here https://www.quora.com/profile/Almondie-Shampine

And you’ll find her books for sale on Amazon HERE (Available in both paperback and e-book).

Thanks

Thanks for reading this blog, I hope you find inspiration and motivation from these posts and that you might find the courage to reach out to us and share your own Mum Life Story. Don’t forget to follow us (bottom of page) or sign up to our mailing list for all the latest news, stories and promo’s including giveaways and writing competitions, plus receive a FREE Ebook exclusive to email subscribers.

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The Scent of Innocence: A Flash Fiction Story

16/12/2019Jo Caddy

We’d like to thank Kim Hart for her flash fiction story ‘The Scent of Innocence’. A heart-wrenching tale about remembering a son after his passing.

Kim Hart is a writer who enjoys writing drabbles, micro-fiction, flash fiction, short stories, and screenplays. She loves reading mystery novels and hopes to write one someday. She is a mother of two adult daughters and a grandmother to a 3-year-old grandson, who lives too far away. She lives in the Snowy Mountains with her husband and German Shepard cross, Kody.

When Kim isn’t writing, she can be found walking to her local coffee shop for a much-needed chai latte, or in front of her T.V. watching crime dramas, renovation shows and baking competitions.

You can follow Kim on twitter at @kimh8765

Photo by Fabrice Nerfin on Unsplash

This page contains affiliate links that may earn me a commission (at no extra cost to you) if you click through and make a purchase. Affiliate links are how I keep this blog running, thank you!

THE SCENT OF INNOCENCE

Emma knew there were 11 children in the cemetery. She had counted. She needed to know she wasn’t alone in her suffering. Sometimes she wondered what their stories were, how their families were coping. She never saw anyone at their graves. Did nobody love them anymore? Were they lonely? Occasionally a toy would appear, leaning against a headstone, but she seemed to be the only parent who visited her child regularly. Would she ever stop coming?

Jacob’s headstone bore a crescent moon above his name. They had always ended each day with a chorus of ‘Love you to the moon and back’. Night-time had been their special time. After the chaos of the day, they’d settle on his bed and read; his pirate doona pulled up to his chin and Charlie bear tucked in safely beside him. Emma would breathe in the fresh scent of him as she read. Cuddles were given freely, no big boy embarrassment like at preschool drop-off. He had taken to shaking her hand the weeks before his passing. She had thought it was cute but longed to feel his little body pressed against hers. The warmth sustained her through her long days without him.

Now here she was missing everything; the warm cuddles, the soft handshakes, the whispered words before bedtime, the smell of his hair.

Emma took the store-bought flowers from her basket. A fresh bunch every week replaced the dry, drooping ones from the week before. A spider had made his home in last week’s bunch, weaving his intricate web between the leaves and petals. Dewdrops shimmered like magic diamonds between the strands. She’d take the spider home and put him in her garden. Jacob would like that. He had always loved animals, especially insects. It drove her to distraction finding bugs in boxes beneath his bed, and she was never allowed to kill anything that had made its way inside her home. She relocated everything.

“Hello there. Lovely day,” a groundskeeper said to her as he tended a nearby rose bush. Emma smiled and nodded, unable to return the pleasantry. She worried if she started talking, even to say hello, she would start crying—again. The well of tears never seemed to dry up. The only time she had been unable to cry was at his funeral service. She had been numb from head to toe, as if she was floating above the scene, watching another’s tragedy playing out like a tableau beneath her.

She took a bottle of water from her basket and filled the vase cemented to the little grave. She’d paid extra for that. She trimmed the stalks of the flowers she had brought— yellow roses and white carnations today—with scissors from her kitchen. Yellow was Jacob’s favourite colour. The ritual was almost complete. Emma said a silent prayer to a God she no longer believed in, gathered her things and began the long, lonely, silent trip home.

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THE CHOICE: A FlashFiction Story

18/06/2019Jo Caddy

I’m Back

There you are! Sorry that I haven’t posted in quite some time, life has been hectic and full on lately. It’s been 4.5 months now since I became a single mum again and I’ve had quite a struggle balancing out 5 children, this blog, my online store, life crisis’, sickness in the house and my social life, well…who am I kidding? I don’t have a social life, I’m a single mum of 5, haha. But that’s ok, at the moment life is wonderfully chaotic and making time for me and the things I enjoy (including this blog) is almost impossible, but it’s just a season. A time is coming where I will be passionately and vigorously writing on a daily or more likely weekly basis and filling this blog with amazing content (a little bit of confidence never hurt 😉 In all seriousness though there are some great articles in the pipeline and some inspiring stories awaiting publication and it’s just a matter of time before I will get them all up here for your reading pleasure.

Today I have an intense piece of Flash Fiction from my very own Mother Suzy Caddy, to share with you. I hope you enjoy it and please stay tuned (follow us for updates) for more stories coming very soon.

Suzy Caddy is retired and lives in Perth, Western Australia with her husband David. She is a Mother to two daughters and Grandmother to 5. When she’s not spending time helping in various church ministries, she loves to bake, write and be crafty!

The Choice

I stood there, tears running down my face. I needed this job, it was imperative I kept it. After all, my two young girls were counting on me. How would we survive without it. It was becoming harder and harder to get a good job, so much had changed. So many legal forms to sign. Oceans of politically correct hoops to jump through. Proof of this, proof of that. Where would it end.

I didn’t know what we would do. There was some money stashed away, and we all had ready bags packed, just in case. But still, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I had hoped they wouldn’t ask me to do the one thing I could never do. Once I went down this road though there would be no going back.It was happening everywhere now and so many people were losing their jobs. Because of minority groups, things had changed dramatically. Even the people I worked with where so different from when I had started here 15 years ago. My girls weren’t that young any more at 11 and 12. Although this would test them to the limit. I hoped I had done my job properly. They were both kind and compassionate. I had warned them this day might come, and told them to be ready.Was I crazy.

How could I jeopardise everyone like this. But how could I not. I was continually being told, these are the rules now, if you want to keep your job, you must comply, but what they were asking me to do, what they were asking all of us to do, was unthinkable and I couldn’t, wouldn’t agree. It wasn’t right.I considered carefully then, what I would need. There was ample provisions in the supply room next door. I needed to hurry though. Glancing around, I slipped into the room and quickly appropriated all I could from the drawers and cabinets and threw everything in a drawstring bag. Then, heart pounding, I grabbed my mobile and made the phone call.

Next, I checked the hallway. No one. I suspected they wanted to distance themselves. Cowards. Out of sight out of mind, seemed to be how everyone avoided the moral disgrace but at least their absence made it easier for me to do what I must.Just do it and be quick I had been told. But no, never. It was beyond imagining. Carefully I approached the bench. So innocent, so pure. So unsuspecting. The syringe full of life stealing liquid sat in a metal tray next to the cot, awaiting my compliance. My tears nearly blinded me as I choked back sobs and gently gathered the tiny 34 week new born baby girl, who was very much alive, into my arms. I stared at her perfect tiny face and knew I was making the right decision. I would never comply.

Wrapping her gently and holding her tightly against my chest , I fled down the back stairs of the hospital to my car, praying they wouldn’t notice I was gone, for quite some time. My girls would be waiting at home, ready to leave for our lonely little cabin in the mountains, and the unknown.

~ Suzy Caddy

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My Mum Life Story: PART 1- Childhood Childhood and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

04/05/2019Jo Caddy

If you’ve been following me for a while, you’ve probably been wondering ‘who is this lady?’ and ‘what’s her deal?’ Most of my posts have been about other people and other things with a few little anecdotal tidbits thrown in for personal relevance and an attempt to ‘relate’ to you, my audience. Sure, there have been a couple of posts about events in my life (We are stronger than we know: Across Australia with a baby & Are We Too Dependant on Technology?) but these are merely small drops of water in the ocean that is my Life.

So this post will be the first in a series of posts that will be very personal, all about me, the woman behind the blog, the very tall woman with long dark hair, brown eyes and more post-baby weight than I care to admit. There’s really far too much for even 3 or 4 blog posts (I am nearly 40 you know) so I will try to condense as much as I can and not overwhelm you with tedious details. If you stick through to the end with me, you’ll be rewarded with a very gratuitous smile (use attached photos as a visual aid) and a new friend.

This page contains affiliate links which I may earn a commision from if you click on the link and make a purchase. Affiliate links are how I keep this blog running! Thank you.

Early years

Born and raised in a Christian family, all I knew was God’s view on what was ‘right’ and what was ‘wrong’. I am grateful everyday for the values and standards my parents infused into my young mind, for I believe they are the very foundation of who I am today (that’s a good thing by the way). At 13 I made my own commitment to following God and having a personal relationship with Jesus and over the following 26 odd years I have been on a journey of spiritual growth, learning how to apply the principles of Love, Grace, Mercy, Compassion, Kindness, Forgiveness and Understanding in my life and in a world that is anything but kind.

I was born in Western Australia (it will always be my home) but moved around the country with my family, as my dad looked for work. I must say that my fondest memories of childhood came from the experiences I had in different towns and states across the country. My dad was a Driver – Bus driver, Taxi driver, Truck driver, even a Boat driver (probably not the technical term but who cares) and we often got to go on various tours and trips for free. I remember riding in taxis in Broome (WA), crocodile spotting at Katherine Gorge (NT), sleeping in the isle of a Coach travelling from Darwin (NT) to Alice Springs (still spewing I didn’t get to see Uluru) & touring the Glass House Mountains on the Sunshine Coast (QLD). I feel very blessed to have seen so much of the country that so many Australians miss out on.

The Empowered Entrepreneur (Buy it now)

Whilst there was a massive upside to moving a whole heap, there were also a lot of struggles. I never really made lasting friendships, being in a place for only 2 to 3 years makes it difficult to maintain connections, and there was no internet back in those olden days, so if you wanted to stay in touch with a friend it was the now redundant pen and paper. Then an envelope, a stamp and a trip to the post office every time you wanted to communicate with someone. Inevitably the passing of time would lead to a loss of the relationship. That, plus the fact that it took me the majority of those 2-3 years to acquire even a couple of good friends because I was painfully shy and self-conscious. This was partly due to my personality (an introvert 70% of the time that can transform into more of an extrovert when around certain people that encourage it out), and partly due to the illness that basically tackled me at 7 years of age.

Illness

As a little girl I was very active. Like most kids I enjoyed running, climbing, jumping, dancing and doing somersaults everywhere there was a space and even when there wasn’t. I enjoyed sport carnival days at school because I usually won or came second. Then something changed when I was 7 years old. Suddenly I couldn’t run very fast anymore, I lacked energy and strength, my legs hurt and would burn after activity, I would often black out after sport and feel nauseous and dizzy. Teachers thought I was faking it, students thought I was attention seeking and would laugh at me and refuse to pick me for their teams, assuming I was just bad at sport.

I began to feel very isolated and alone at school, I’d often sit by myself at recess and ask to remain in class over lunch to finish work. I tried to pretend I felt fine after sport so I wouldn’t have to see the inevitable whispering in someone’s ear, the turning of the head, the eyes staring at me and laughing, and the teachers rolling their eyes and going back to their work.

I missed a lot of school over the following years, because I always seemed to catch whatever was going around, plus my anxiety about going to school elevated daily as the starring increased and teasing continued. I had no friends until one day a new girl just decided I was her bestie before we’d even spoken. “We” still didn’t talk much after that as she was one of those people who liked to do all the talking and none of the listening, but I was happy to have one person at school who wanted to be around me and didn’t judge nor harass me.

My self esteem only declined further and further as I was taken to doctor after doctor without any help, they also decided I must have been faking it as test results kept coming back claiming I was perfectly healthy. As a young child I felt defeated. I hated feeling so weak and sick all the time, I hated not being able to do the activities I’d previously loved, I hated the stares and whispers and rejection I faced everyday, but the worst thing was I hated not being believed. I hated being labelled as something I wasn’t, as a lier! This hurt me very deeply as I have always put a great deal of importance on truth. This is one part of me that has never changed.

It wasn’t until I saw a specialist in Darwin when I was about 12 years old, that I was finally diagnosed with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) or more commonly known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS). It appeared I had suffered a bout of Glandular Fever due to contracting the Epstein-Barr Virus somehow. Whilst it was great to have an answer to my mysterious health issues, it was disappointing to find out I had a condition that had no cure. At that time, very little research had been done on the subject and most doctors hadn’t even heard of it. It was just something I had to learn to live with.

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Limits

I had to learn very quickly were my limits were. Aerobic exercise for example was not conducive to my desire to stay conscious and so it went on the top of my ‘can not do’ list, right alongside, playing sport, climbing mountains, running marathons, swimming the English Channel and wrestling crocodiles. I had little desire to do the last two but the rest plus many other things were simply off limits. Obviously my confidence in myself and my ability to reach unimaginable heights was pretty much non-existent at that stage in my life and until about the age of 30. I did manage to climb one mountain (Cradle Mountain, Tasmania) when I was 18, which made me so proud of myself, despite being at least half an hour later to the summit than everyone else and not being able to walk properly for nearly a week after.

Due to the amount of school I missed and the anxiety that escalated, I was put on correspondence for the majority of my high school years. This allowed me to get through my school work in my own time, between illness and bouts of fatigue. Whilst helping me to achieve my education, it did little to enhance my social skills and consequently I remained very shy and reserved into my teens and adult years. Looking back I’m not entirely convinced this was a bad thing as there were so many things I didn’t have to go through that others in my age group wish they hadn’t gone through. Mistakes and regrets they wish they’d avoided, I knew nothing about. The things I did go through however, with my physical and mental health, gave me a level of empathy that I believe has made me a better Mother and Friend.

Further Study

Studying Film had been my dream since around the age of 14 but at the time I was ready to go into University, the film industry was still completely Analogue (right before the conversion to Digital) and the cost of film was very high. The Uni fees could be covered by the government student loan but the equipment costs were more than I or my parents could afford. I looked into different course providers and various grants etc but nothing proved fruitful, then one day someone at church told me about an organisation called Fusion that ran a Certificate in Christian Broadcasting in Tasmania. It wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind but if God wanted me to do it then I was more than willing and excited about the prospects of a new adventure on my own for the first time in my life.

So at 18 I quit my job at the Big Pineapple in Nambour, QLD, packed my bags and flew to the Countries coldest state, Tasmania where I spent 3 Months on a freezing cold mountain side, in a tiny little town called Poatina learning about radio broadcasting and video production. The friends I made, as well as the course which involved bible study units and community involvement created an invaluable experience for me which I believe started my journey of self discovery and character development. It was a long road after graduation though, one that took a path I didn’t expect, leading me through valley’s and over hurdles that were designed to take me down and out. If it wasn’t for the Love of a Heavenly Father, I don’t believe I would still be here today. That’s a story for next time though.

Read the next chapter – My Mum Life Story: PART 2 – Married Young & Multiple Birth

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Thanks for sticking with me guys, and please stay tuned for the next instalment coming in a few weeks. In the meantime we have some more flash fiction coming your way and another Mum Life Success Story. While you wait for that, why not check out some of our past Mum Life Success Stories and if you’d like to know how you can have your story told on this blog, please visit our T & C’s page.

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Sara Impriano: A Mum Life Success Story

04/03/201921/07/2021Jo Caddy

We are redefining the word ‘Success’ here at Mum Life Stories. You don’t have to be a rock star, a celebrity with your name up in lights and 100k+ followers on Instagram. You don’t have to have a million dollars in the bank or have the whole world know your name. “Success” to us is getting up every day and taking care of business. It’s kicking goals and pushing toward your dreams. It’s not giving up or letting circumstances or other people prevent you from embracing the future you long for in your ‘heart’. For Sara Impriano, our latest Mum Life Success Story subject, “Success” means becoming the best version of herself. I spoke to Sara about how she achieved this goal and became an Independent Beachbody Coach!

This page contains affiliate links that I may earn a commission from if you click on them and make a purchase. Affiliate links help me to keep this blog going so I can bring you awesome Mum Life Stories.

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From Teaching to Training

Sara Impriano lives in West Chester, Pennsylvania (USA) with husband Eric and their three children, Brandon (11), Gracie (10) and Izzy (7). Sara spent 10 years as a 4th and 5th Grade Special Education teacher in an elementary school before leaving to give birth to her first child. Sara says “For the past 11 years, I have been a stay at home mom and have loved every minute of it. I feel so fortunate that I was able to be home with my children and be there for their first steps, first words, the first day of preschool and their first day of Kindergarten.” Once her children all began full-time school and Sara found herself at home alone all day long, she had what could only be described as an identity crisis. “To be honest, I was a little depressed. I had been rocking the wife and mom role for so long, who was I now that I didn’t have any little humans to take care of all day long?”

A New Opportunity

14 months ago Sara was given the opportunity to embark on a new adventure as a health and wellness coach. “Coaching happened to fall into my lap at the perfect time. I was already focusing more on fitness and my own health once I turned 40 but I knew I needed to find something to fill my cup up, something just for me outside of being a wife and mom and voila I stumbled upon coaching.” Sara had been asked years earlier if she would ever consider coaching, but was in full-on mommy mode at the time with three toddlers and so decided to pass on the idea. “When it came into my life for the second time I took it as a sign that this might be the very thing I was looking for. 14 months later it has turned out to be so much more than I ever dreamed. I have been able to stay consistent with my own health and fitness goals, I am showing my children that taking care of yourself is so important and that it’s never too late to start a new adventure.”

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So Many Benefits

Not only was Sara successful in finding a business that benefited her financially, physically and mentally, but she found joy in the greater purpose it awarded her with helping others to achieve the same benefits. “I have made so many amazing friendships all across the country all thanks to coaching and every day I get to wake up and help women become the best version of themselves. I am so blessed to have found my passion in helping other women and am excited to see where this coaching business takes me.”

Sara had this advice for other mums considering becoming a health and wellness coach. “Go for it. I know it is scary to jump all into something not knowing if its the right fit or if you will be good at it, trust me, I felt the same way. What if I fail? What if I can’t help anyone? What if I don’t know all the answers? But then I decided, what do I have to lose and what if this is the very thing that will change the rest of my life? If we are failing forward then we are moving in the right direction. I would rather say I tried and failed than to have never put myself out there and tried at all. So If you are ready to inspire, encourage and motivate other women while you are working on your own health and wellness, then maybe this could be for you!”

Follow the Journey

If you’d like to know more about Sara’s business ‘Team Burnin it Down’ or would like to follow her success story as an Independent Beachbody coach, you can follow her on Instagram (@sara.impriano) or Facebook.

If you’d like to be featured in our success stories, please visit our T & C’s page for more info, or send us an e-mail at mumlifestories@gmail.com

No story is insignificant. We say that if you feel like a success then you are a success! Your story could inspire and motivate others to forge a path toward their own success story. So please do not hesitate to step forward and share your journey with us and gain recognition and a community of followers at the same time.

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Read how a tragedy became Esther Rodriguez’ greatest motivation and pushed her into becoming a successful award-winning business owner.

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THE SCENT OF INNOCENCE

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I’m Back

The Choice

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Early years

Illness

Limits

Further Study

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From Teaching to Training

A New Opportunity

So Many Benefits

Follow the Journey

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