My Fairy Godmother Called Today
So here I am, and here I start
She doesn’t know she’s my fairy godmother. My own personal FG.
It’s taken me years to realize it.
In truth, I have a few.
Each of them is a strong, remarkable woman. While they couldn’t be more different from one another, they all share something extraordinary. They’ve battled their pasts and come out the other side battered, worn, but still standing.
What sets them apart isn’t just their resilience. It’s the way they’ve held onto their capacity to show kindness, support, empathy and love to others, even after everything they’ve been through, expecting nothing in return. Maybe there is something in their past that recognises the struggles of someone else, an unspoken understanding born from their scars, that draws them to me.
They show up unexpectedly, possessing some superwoman sonic radar that pings when life is overwhelming. A phone call, a thoughtful text. Flowers, chocolates, doughnuts, or a card in the post. They remind me that, no matter how tough things get, I’m not alone.
Her calls aren’t often, life gets in the way, and yet they always seem to arrive at precisely the moment I need them most.
Today was no exception.
A few months into the New Year and I’m bone-deep tired at the thought of the rest of the year looming large, stacked with responsibilities I can’t avoid.
As a full-time carer to my autistic non-verbal son, I’ve learned over the years to simultaneously look ahead to the future (forewarned is forearmed) and yet live day-to-day, moment by moment to push through and remain grounded.
My son turns 18 next month. That milestone, which should be celebratory, is instead ushering in a new set of hurdles. A minefield of meetings, forms and adult transition procedures all wrapped in legalese, bureaucracy and urgency.
Mental capacity assessments, independent assessors, social workers, GPs. As a parent of a special needs child, I am expected, no, required, to become an expert in everything, chief among those, finance, welfare, and law. To manage not only my son’s care but the labyrinthine system that’s supposed to support him, but often fails the people navigating, in their attempt to advocate for their vulnerable charge.
It is a merry-go-round that you cannot get off.
Exhausting, all consuming, and as much as I hate to admit it, lonely.
I’m a dreamer. Big, bold, glittering aspirations. I was a glass artist before events in my life pushed that to the side and demanded something else entirely. My world was filled with colour and light, the sharp edges of broken things reshaped into beauty in my art studio. My happy place. Those dreams aren’t gone, I hold onto them tightly, but they’ve been shelved, waiting for a time that some days seems far off in the distance.
Now, I “dream” for myself and I “do” for my children.
My body is worn out, and my spirit, though resilient, sometimes falters.
And then, she calls.
We met about 17 years ago at a glass course, back when I still had the luxury of time to explore the things I loved, before the autism diagnosis of my son. I never noticed it then but I see it now. She has this way about her, a quiet unassuming wisdom that makes me feel safe. Safe enough to share some of the thoughts I keep hidden from everyone else. When we talk, hours pass like minutes. Our conversations meander through art and life, books, films and TV. We discuss how we are never short of ideas; it’s the flitting from one thing to another that’s exhausting never really landing anywhere. We need to slow down and commit at that moment to just one thing and start.
“Just start” we often say.
She has this knack for mentioning things that lodge themselves in my mind and take root, growing into something larger and more profound in the days that follow.
I don’t fully know her back-story, then again, do we ever know anybody’s? I mean, do we even fully know ourselves?
Over the years there have been snippets of past relationships and events in her life that she’s shared. But I recognise that her wisdom is the kind that only comes from weathering life’s harshest storms, trauma, injustice, knockbacks, and heartbreak. But also from the quiet victories: hard-earned independence, a fierce determination to keep going, and resilience that refuses to waver.
A few years ago, she met someone.
After years of walking her path, she started a new chapter; one that feels like it was written just for her. When I visited her new home, the one they now share, I saw her joy. She was radiant in a way I hadn’t seen before, her happiness almost tangible.
At one point, she left the room to fetch something or put the kettle on. In her absence, he turned to me. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes warm but earnest.
“She’s so special,” he said, his words laced with admiration. “Really special.”
For a moment I was taken aback. There was something so raw, so unguarded about his confession. This stranger, who had stepped into her life wasn’t just saying it, he felt it in his bones. It wasn’t the sort of thing men usually say, especially not to someone they’ve just met.
“Yes,” I replied, my voice steady but brimming with emotion. “She most certainly is.”
In that instant I knew with absolute certainty that she had found “the one”. for her. Someone who truly sees her, not just her strength, but her softness too. Someone who values her for all that she is and cherishes the journey that brought her here.
It felt like a circle had closed, a life that had endured so much now folding gently into the embrace of something good, something safe and so deserved.
Today, she told me about a blogging platform called Substack. She knows I like to write, and knows how words have always been my way of piecing together the fragments of my life.
Years ago she told me “you are a good writer, you’re so eloquent”.
I recall scoffing, tossing the compliment away like an old supermarket receipt “Ha! Me? What on earth are you talking about?”
After our call, she sent me a couple of links, one of which led to an article that stopped me in my tracks.
The writer spoke about how not everyone has the privilege of chasing their creative dreams. How circumstances beyond our control can dictate the course of our lives. I read that sentence again and again, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. It hit a nerve, that quiet, unspoken truth I live with daily.
The next day I texted her back:
“Hey, I looked into Substack. Great idea, but I’m hesitant to commit. Albeit very aware that’s exactly what would push me forward. LOL.”
“The article was great. Insightful and accurate. It hit a nerve. Made me teary.”
“I’ve learned (learning) to be more present and take each day/moment at a time. To try not to dwell on feeling left out and to look back only to acknowledge how far I’ve come and what I’ve achieved. I forget or trivialize it all so easily… Thank you, as always. You make me slow down and think. And when I do, I always emerge more positive.”
Her reply was simple, a little nudge as always: “Write when you’re ready. No pressure.”
But something lingered on. That same evening I watched a YouTube video, A DIY renovation and he finished with the words “You can find more details on how to budget on my substack newsletter”.
I rewound the video and listened carefully… Substack. Again.
I’d never heard of it 48hrs ago.
It felt like an opportunity, a gateway... serendipity.
Saturday morning, two carers arrive for my son and I dispatch myself and my laptop to my local coffee shop and I start to type.
My fairy godmother isn’t the kind with a wand or a ball gown. She’s the kind who shows up exactly when you need her, offering words of wisdom instead of wishes.
Though she doesn’t know it, instead of me endlessly thinking, over-researching, and writing notes that never quite go anywhere, she’s showing me how to reshape the shards of my life into something whole. Something tangible, something beautiful.
She’s helping me bridge the gap between dreaming and doing, and her faith in me remains unwavering, even when mine falters.
Quietly, without fanfare, she reminds me of my own magic. She makes me see that my superpowers, the ones I use every single day for my son, can also be applied to myself.
Because I am more than just a mother to a severely disabled child.
I am a whole, unique person with dreams, creativity, and so much more to offer the world. It’s so easy to forget that. It’s so easy to sideline yourself when caregiving takes up every ounce of your energy and time.
The gentle nudge has cleared the fog in my mind. It’s time for change. Time to let go of the fear. And time to reclaim the parts of me that I had almost forgotten.
I am the creator of my reality, and I get to choose the script of my life. The only way I know how to do that is through creative methods.
It’s my gift to myself, one that’s been awakened and brought to light through my subconscious, thanks in part, to my personal FG.
It’s slightly terrifying and well out of my comfort zone.
I don’t know where this will lead me, but I do know I have the skills to get me there, and the ones I don’t have, I will learn.
The future is where I am now.
So here I am, and here I start.
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing and for creating this space. Can’t wait to see where you go from here ♥️🙂 xxx
Really a gift! Nurture it and keep it going 🤗