Some days feel long before they even begin. The kind of long that settles into your bones and sits behind your eyes. Today is one of those days — battling exhaustion and fatigue from the moment my feet hit the floor. But deep down, I know the tiredness isn’t just weariness. It’s growth. It’s the weight of pushing forward, choosing better, doing more — not just for me, but for my children.
There’s something powerful about conversations with new people who share the same morals, the same quiet understanding. People who don’t need everything explained. Those conversations balance the mind, soothe the soul, and somehow, even on the hardest days, bring smiles back where they belong. They remind me I’m not walking this road alone.
The alarm went off early — 6:15am — and the cold morning air bit as I headed into the gym. A room full of smiles, familiar faces, and shared motivation. No excuses, just effort. That workout gave me the kick-start I needed. From there it was a blur: rushing home, preparing lunch boxes, serving breakfast, feeding the dogs, feeding the cats, showering, and school drop-off — all before my own hectic day in the classroom even began.
An earlier finish today meant switching gears, refocusing. Planning the term. Looking carefully at each child in front of me and asking myself what they need to learn, where they need to grow, and how I can help them get there. Inside the four walls of my classroom, their development is my responsibility. That’s not something I take lightly. It’s heavy. It matters.
Then it’s back into mum mode. School pick-up done. Tea made. Plates cleared. Before sitting back down at the computer for more work, because the day isn’t finished just yet.
At 8pm, I escape. Dance practice. An hour to move, to breathe, to be with friends. To push my body across the room, even through the pain in my aching foot. It’s not called a senior team for nothing — every step reminds me of my limits, and every step reminds me I can still push them.
Home again. Bedtime routines done. Lights out. And here I am now, 11pm, still working. Still going.
I’ve worked out.
I’ve worked through.
And I’ll keep working on — until I’m not sure what hour the clock says anymore.
Because this season demands effort. And I’m answering it.
Author: jugglingmamadaily
First day back to it
I got up at 5.40am, although “got up” feels generous. I’d been awake since 1.45am, watching the snow fall in that quiet, magical way that only exists when the rest of the world is asleep. By 4am I’d finally drifted, only to wake again at 5.40 and sweep the drive clear before heading to the gym for my Vibe Cycle class. It was freezing—bone-deep cold—but I felt good afterwards, telling myself I was working off last night’s final festive takeaway. A small mental win to start the day.
First Day Back to Work
Two weeks off has taught me something important: I will be excellent at retirement. Excellent. Rested. Present. Unrushed. Returning to work reminded me just how many hats I wear every single day—teacher, nurse, referee, organiser, peacekeeper, comforter, listener, fixer, cheerleader, administrator, problem-solver. And sometimes, all of them before lunch.
Today, I am emotionally and mentally drained.
I missed precious time with my youngest daughter, who had a training day. She spent it making clay moulds with my mum and playing Guess Who. What I wouldn’t give to have been there for that—sat at the table, laughing, fully present, nowhere else to be.
The day itself was driven by feelings of loss. Not being able to speak to the man I love on the way to work sat heavily in my chest. The feelings came in waves—sadness, anger, longing, grief. All I wanted was him close to me. Instead, I carried on, holding it together, doing what needed to be done. I came home to just me and my youngest, cooked her tea, and felt that ache again—the need to share my day with him, to hear his voice, to feel understood. But he’s far away, in London, and distance has a way of amplifying everything you’re already feeling.
Management kindly put on a buffet lunch, but I ate too many carbs and spent the afternoon battling sleepiness, my body heavy while my mind raced. After a long first day back, we had a staff meeting. So much to take in, so much to fit into such a short space of time. I felt overwhelmed to the point of tears. But no—I will not cry on my first day back. I held it in.
I left work, collected my daughter’s phone from my mum (forgotten in the chaos of the morning), picked her up from dance, and cooked tea for us both. And now, as she sits in the bath, proudly showing me her new P Louise shampoo and conditioner from Santa and dropping a LUSH bath bomb into the water, I share her excitement. We watch the colours swirl and bloom, slowly exploring the bath in soft, calming waves.
And I find myself wishing—just for a moment—that I could flow through life the way those colours flow through the water. Calm. Unforced. Gentle. Trusting that everything will eventually blend into something beautiful.
The Robin, the tip and the night before school
Sunday night has a particular weight to it, especially the last one before returning to the classroom. It sits heavy on the chest, full of lists that won’t stay written down and thoughts that refuse to line up neatly. The room is quiet, but my head isn’t. I’m already rearranging desks, replaying conversations that haven’t happened yet, wondering if I’ve planned enough—or too much. Teaching has a way of creeping into every corner of a Sunday night.
The day itself tried its best to keep me grounded. I spent it outside, armed with garden shears, determined to wrestle some order back into the yard. Vines that had grown wild over the holidays came down in stubborn clumps. Nettles—stingy and overconfident—were cut back to size. I hosed down the patio, the water biting cold as it sprayed out, half frozen and numbing my fingers. At one point, in a moment that felt a bit symbolic, I sliced straight through the washing line with the shears. Clean cut. No going back. Some things really do just snap when they’re ready.
The tip run should have been quick, but of course it wasn’t. Half an hour waiting just to turn around, admit defeat, and come back later with the Christmas cardboard. Even that felt like a lesson: sometimes you don’t get to drop everything off when you want to. Sometimes you circle back.
And all the while, the robin was there.
Perched nearby, hopping closer, watching me hose the patio and hack back the overgrowth, as if supervising the whole operation. I kept glancing over, half-smiling. I’ve always believed that robin is Dad, keeping an eye on me, checking I’m doing okay. It didn’t judge the mess or the muttered comments under my breath. It just stayed. That felt like enough.
Now it’s Sunday night. The last takeaway of the holidays is on the table—rubbish food, eaten without ceremony—and tomorrow routine returns. Early alarm. Gym bag packed for the 6:15 class. The beginning of a new way of life for me and my girls this year. Healthier, steadier, more intentional… even if tonight my brain is still sprinting ahead of me.
There’s comfort, though, in knowing that despite the overthinking and the nerves, I’ve trimmed back what needed trimming. I’ve cleared a bit of space. I’ve been watched over. And tomorrow, when the classroom door opens again, I’ll step into it carrying all of this with me—the cold water, the snapped washing line, the waiting at the tip, and the quiet company of a robin on a Sunday afternoon.
The weekend , but the weekend after New Year
Saturday 3rd January
We are stuck — that strange in-between feeling where the year has technically started, but life hasn’t quite pressed play yet.
Today feels like preparation day. Not the dramatic, fresh-start kind, but the quieter sorting-yourself-out version. Getting ready to return to work, mentally lining things up, pretending you’re more organised than you actually feel. There’s that nagging sense that because it’s Saturday you should be out doing something — brunch, wandering, being spontaneous — but instead you’re already trying to be good. Sensible. Future-you focused.
The alarm went off early because apparently I’ve decided to be that person . Gym class at 8:30am, in the snow. Snow. At the time it felt great — smug, even — like I was winning at life while everyone else was still in bed. Fast forward a few hours and the tiredness has properly landed, but I’m still pleased. Daily steps hit: 10k. Box ticked. No one can take that away from me.
The afternoon has been all about easing into routine. Visiting a best friend and putting the world to rights for a couple of hours, good for the soul! Cooking off all the leftover veg, turning odds and ends into next week’s soup for work lunches. Batch cooking feels deeply unglamorous, but also oddly comforting— like I’m quietly looking after myself without making a big deal about it. There’s something satisfying about knowing future lunches are handled. Luckily I really love to cook so used this as an escape mechanism this afternoon from tough thoughts within my mind(which I will save for another day!)
Now? Now I can’t wait to sit down. The Traitors is calling, and so is the sofa. I do not sit on my sofa a lot, despite the wonderful deal from Sofa Sofa, I don’t give it the comfort of my relaxation that it deserves. There’s a pause here — a moment to breathe, to let the day settle — and to contemplate what’s next. Not in a big, overwhelming way. Just gently. One episode at a time.
Stuck, yes. But maybe also exactly where I’m supposed to be.
When the new year begins but you dont know how to
Let’s begin
The calendar turns, the numbers change, and suddenly it’s 2026.
Apparently, this is the moment we’re meant to feel hopeful. Refreshed. Ready.
Life is beginning again, they say.
But what if it doesn’t feel like that at all?
What if the new year arrives quietly, while you’re already exhausted, standing in yesterday’s mess, holding a to-do list that feels heavier than your body can manage?
There’s a strange loneliness that comes with the start of a new year when you don’t know how to begin. Everyone else seems to be posting plans, goals, clean slates. Meanwhile, you’re just trying to get through the day without crying in the kitchen or falling asleep sitting upright. You want to be positive — you really do — but positivity feels like another task you don’t have the energy to complete.
You feel lost. Not dramatically, not in a way that makes a good story — just quietly, deeply unsure. Unsure where to start, unsure what deserves your attention first, unsure how you’re supposed to rebuild when you’re already running on empty.
There’s so much you want to sort out.
You want to do things right. Especially for your children.
You want to be organised, present, patient, steady — the kind of parent who has answers, routines, and a calm voice at the end of a long day.
You want to give them a home that feels safe and light and in order.
You want to sort the house from top to bottom — the cupboards, the drawers, the piles that have silently grown in the corners of rooms. You imagine how good it would feel if everything had a place, if the chaos could just be cleared away.
But wanting isn’t the same as having the energy.
What you really need — desperately — is a few more hours of sleep. Not the kind where you close your eyes but keep thinking, but deep, uninterrupted rest. The kind that makes your body feel human again. Without it, even the smallest task feels enormous. Dishes become mountains. Laundry becomes a personal failure. The house doesn’t just look messy — it feels like proof that you’re behind.
And that’s the part no one talks about when a new year begins.
Sometimes starting again doesn’t look like motivation or vision boards or fresh notebooks. Sometimes it looks like sitting very still, overwhelmed, unsure where to place your next step. Sometimes it looks like surviving on the bare minimum and hoping that counts as enough.
Maybe the truth is this: life doesn’t magically begin again on January 1st. It begins slowly. Unevenly. In fragments.
It begins when you admit you’re tired.
When you stop pretending you’re fine.
When you choose rest over perfection, even when everything in you says you should be doing more.
If 2026 feels overwhelming already, that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It means you’re human. It means you’ve been carrying a lot. And maybe the beginning of this year isn’t about fixing everything at once, but about giving yourself permission to move gently.
One drawer at a time.
One night of better sleep when you can get it.
One small decision made with care, especially for the little people watching you try.
You don’t have to know how to begin.
You just have to begin where you are.
And maybe — quietly, imperfectly — that’s enough for now.
Life, unplanned
I didn’t plan to be starting over at 42. Life looked very different on paper — steady, shared, predictable.
Then separation, grief, and single parenting arrive all at once, and balance becomes something I have to relearn rather than assume. At the same time, I am learning how to live in a world without my father — a loss that hurts in ways I don’t yet have language for.
This blog is a place to tell the truth about this in-between space: holding down work while holding together a family, grieving what was while building something new, and learning who I am when the ground shifts beneath me. It’s about small wins, tired days, resilience I didn’t know I had, and growth that comes not from choice, but from necessity.
If you’re navigating change, loss, or a life that no longer fits the plan you once had — you’re not alone. This is me starting again, one honest step at a time.
You’re welcome to walk this part of the journey with me.
Between what was and what's next 