✨ The Floor, the Future, and the Feeling of Trust

Wednesday 18th June 2025 — East Finchley

I’m lying on the floor of the Leicester Road house, surrounded by the last remnants of a life that’s now being packed away. The furniture is disappearing. The walls are beginning to echo. And in 48 hours, we’ll be gone.

This house has held us for the past 18 months — a temporary refuge in the eye of a storm that had been brewing for years. Kept in limbo by an ex whose delays, distortions, and evasions tethered us to uncertainty — and the prohibitive steps order became his final act of control. Suspended by silence, and stuck in freeze. While the chaos of court and co-parenting has swirled around me, inside this house there’s been another kind of chaos — the quiet kind that accumulates in drawers, piles, and the emotional clutter of unresolved chapters.

And yet, in the midst of this upheaval, a strange thing is happening.

Peace is beginning to descend.

People keep saying they can’t believe how calm I am. And I suppose that’s because something deeper has settled in me. A truth that’s taken years to learn and even longer to believe: I can trust myself. Somehow, I always find a way to make things work.

And I realise I always knew my North Star, and that has been guiding me.

For women who’ve lived in disempowering relationships, their voices quietened, that feeling — that knowing — is nothing short of radical. And hard-won.

We’re moving now, heading north from London to Cumbria. To my small but gorgeous Meadow View. A true sanctuary. A place where nature feels steady and spacious — where the landscape offers peace, and hope feels possible again. A place that, even before we arrive, feels like home.

And the children — they’ve carried so much through this, often more than they should have. This move is for them as much as it is for me. A fresh start, with less noise and more space to breathe. I want them to feel steadiness under their feet again, to wake up to birdsong and quiet skies, to feel held by a rhythm that’s slower, kinder, more grounded. They deserve that. We all do.

Leicester Road has given us a soft landing from the family home, and for that I’m grateful. It sheltered us while I trained as a trauma-informed coach and Liz and I were building the bones of Family Flow, finding our feet, and starting to speak out. It was here that I began the journey of reclaiming my own power — even though I was still shaky and unfocused and carrying more than I wanted to.

But the house isn’t ours. The energy never quite right. The garden, tired. The outside needs care. The black stairs, heavy. We need lightness. Less stuff. Fewer shadows. More possibility.

Now, that’s coming.

Meadow View is more than an address — it’s a turning point. A clearing. I have no illusions: it’ll be tight for a while. Stressful at times. But it’s the right kind of hard. The kind where things start to grow.

And come September, I feel it: Family Flow will rise into the next version of itself. Liz has been so patient, and together we have been planting seeds while waiting for life to catch up. And it finally is. Slowly, but surely, it’s happening.

This blog isn’t just a moving diary. It’s a message to any woman who is hanging on by a thread. Who’s trying to hold it together for her kids while it feels like everything around her is falling apart. I see you.

I’ve been there. In every way. And here’s what I can tell you:

Even in the chaos — you can trust yourself.
Even in the confusion — you can begin again.
Even when it doesn’t feel like it — you are rebuilding something solid.

So this is a line in the sand. A moment of clarity on the floor of a half-empty house. A final exhale before the next inhale begins.

I trust myself.
And that changes everything.