Some of you may already know, and others may not, that Gem left us last week. She died peacefully at Highland Hospice in Inverness, on Wednesday 23rd September, with her husband, parents and brother by her side.

Gem had such a wonderful way with words, which is why so many of us looked forward to receiving her Substack updates. While she didn’t leave words to be published at this time, it feels fitting to borrow some that she did choose to leave behind for family and friends.

***

“Oh hello beautiful people,

Please know that I am at peace. I am not frightened and I am not in pain. I feel held, loved and really relieved that I don’t have to suffer anymore.

Please do not feel that you have to act a certain way or grieve in a certain way. Take your time and be gentle with yourselves.

If you want to talk to me, you can. Out loud, in your thoughts, or quietly in your heart. I am not far away.

Remember how much I loved the sun on my face, dancing, and dipping in cold water.

With all my heart,

Gem xxx”

***

Gem’s interment is at Delliefure Natural Burial Ground, Grantown-on-Spey, on Friday 2 October at 10am, followed by a Celebration of Life at Boat of Garten Community Hall at 2pm. Anyone wishing to join Gemma’s family and friends for a dip in the River Spey between the two services will be most welcome at the bathing pool in Grantown around 11.30am.

There’s no formal dress code; please come as you feel comfortable.

An online link for the ceremony in the hall will be available for those who are unable to travel. Please reply to this message if you would like that.

Family flowers only. Gem asked for any donations to be split between Highland Hospice and Wick Hospital Chemotherapy Unit.

Please contact John Ross Funeral Services on 01479872222 or info@johnrossfuneralservices.com to make a donation remotely.

***

Some final words from Gem:

“Pause. Breathe. Take time to listen to what matters to you in this moment, which may not be what you expected. Please be very kind and gentle with yourself.”

Thank you for your patience. I know I’ve been posting less than usual. Most of the time I'm using my energy to stay alive so it hasn’t left much to spare. But today I had a little in the bank and fancied using some brain cells.

As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I like feeling in control. I like knowing what’s coming, having a plan and knowing what I’m supposed to do next. Or at least I did. But the last eight years have been one huge lesson in our complete and utter lack of control over life, and recently that has felt particularly true.

I’ve been in a lot of pain on a daily basis, and it really has been a struggle. One of the hardest things about it is how unpredictable the pain can be. One minute I can be totally fine and the next I can be writhing around in agony, crying uncontrollably, and this is the part that no one else sees, apart from my husband and kids.

It’s the part that happens behind closed doors, where the pain can be so overwhelming that I find myself wishing death was nearby, just to release me from the suffering. And then the pain subsides, often as quickly as it appeared, and I can go back to enjoying the looks of pure joy on my kids’ faces, listening to their wholehearted laughs and watching them being themselves. Suddenly those thoughts of death disappear and instead I want to be here for as long as possible. I want to see their childhood, I want more ordinary days, more laughs and more moments that I would once have taken completely for granted.

I think one of the things I’m recognising at the moment is that “this too shall pass”. Everything we experience is just a snapshot in time, but the problem is that when someone sees or listens to you at your lowest, it can be very easy for them to believe that this is you, that this is how you are going to be and that this is where your story is heading.

And I understand why. If someone sees me when I’m in unbearable pain, they see someone who looks broken, someone who is struggling to cope and someone who may not look like the person they know. But that moment is just a moment. It isn’t the whole story.

And I think this matters enormously when you’re dealing with cancer, because hope is one of the most important things you can have on this journey. Hope that things can change, hope that the next treatment might work, hope that a new drug might get you somewhere you didn’t think you could go and hope that tomorrow might be different from today.

I know this because I’ve been in horrendous places before, places where I genuinely didn’t think I was going to live through them, and yet here I am. Still here, still hoping and still believing that something could happen that I can’t possibly predict right now.

Because that’s the thing about having no control: it isn’t only bad things that are unpredictable. Good things are unpredictable too. A new drug could work, a scan could be better than expected, the pain could ease or something could change. Life can turn around in ways you simply cannot see coming.

So please don’t write someone off because you’ve seen them at their worst. And if you’re the person at your worst right now, please don’t write yourself off. You are not the worst day you’ve had, you are not the pain you’re in today and you are not the version of yourself that other people happen to see in your lowest moments.

And most of all, it’s important to hold onto hope. For yourself, but also for others. Because none of us know what tomorrow might bring.

That is just a snapshot, and tomorrow is still unwritten.

This too shall pass.

Sending big hugs from the croft for whatever you’re going through xx

Most of the time, we take them for granted. We criticise them. We wish they were different. We look in the mirror and focus on the things we don’t like, rather than stopping for a moment to appreciate everything they do for us, every single day.

They work tirelessly for us.

I think this week is also my three-year cancer-versary.

Three years since I was told I had secondary cancer.

That might not sound like a particularly long time to some people, but given the ups and downs I’ve been through over those three years, I’m honestly astounded to be here.

I’ve lost some friends along the way. I think about them often, particularly on the tougher days. I still turn to them for guidance. There’s something about having your own mortality placed firmly in front of you that makes the absence of people you’ve lost feel particularly close, especially when they’ve been lost to the same disease as me.

Perhaps because of that, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the language we use around cancer.

Specifically, the language of fighting.

Cancer is so often described as a battle. We talk about fighting cancer, beating cancer, winning the war. People are described as brave warriors, fighters and survivors. It becomes something to be conquered, defeated and beaten.

It’s never felt right for me.

I don’t see my body as a battlefield.

My body is doing everything it possibly can to keep me alive.

It works around the clock. It keeps my heart beating, my lungs breathing and my blood moving. It does all of these extraordinary things without me having to think about any of them.

And then there’s cancer.

Cancer is clever. It adapts and mutates to remain hidden in plain sight, undetected. It can find ways around things that are supposed to stop it.

Sneaky.

But even then, I don’t think of it as an enemy invading my body.

The war terminology makes me feel as though I should constantly be on high alert, waiting for the next attack. And I don’t want to live like that. I’m only just learning to enjoy a regulated nervous system, and I don’t think being at war is compatible with that.

We don’t use the same language for other life-shortening illnesses.

We don’t say Dennis lost his battle against dementia.

That language can put an enormous amount of responsibility on the person who is ill.

If someone “lost their battle”, does that imply they didn’t fight hard enough? That they weren’t strong enough? That somehow they failed to outsmart the enemy? That feels like a pretty heavy burden to put on someone who is already dealing with the uncertainty of their own life.

Dennis didn’t do anything wrong.

Neither did anyone else.

We don’t even say we’re fighting a cold. We get a cold, our body responds to it, and eventually we get better.

So why do we use so much war language around cancer?

Of course, this is just how I feel about it. If describing yourself as a fighter or cancer as a battle helps you, then I’m all for it.

Each to their own.

For me, though, I think there’s something much more comforting in remembering that my body is not my enemy.

It has carried me through forty extraordinary years.

It has grown and birthed two tiny humans, put up with a ridiculous number of alcohol-fuelled nights, and latterly it has carried me through fear and uncertainty, treatment and side effects, good days and really bloody difficult ones.

It has kept going.

And so have I.

We’re a partnership.

That’s what I want to remember on my three-year cancer-versary.

Not that I have been at war.

But that I am incredibly lucky to have this complicated, clever, imperfect body of mine.

The same body I spent years criticising and sometimes wishing was different.

The same body that, all along, has been doing its absolute best to keep me here.

Three years.

I’ll take that.

And I’m grateful for every bit of it.

Sending big hugs from the croft xx

Wow. It’s been a while since my last post.

The past few weeks took everything I had. I needed to step away for a while and focus on getting through treatment and making it home.

I returned to Scotland in stealth mode and have spent my time recovering.

Before I left India, I had a few weeks of intense liver procedures and was readmitted to hospital a few days before my flight home. It was really grim, and for a while I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to make my flight.

I’m not quite ready to unpack everything or write about the experience in detail. That will come when the time is right.

For now, I just wanted to let you know I’m here.

And living with cancer is super difficult.

So please know, if you’re going through it: I see you. I know the silent torture and the loneliness.

Thank you to everyone who has checked in with me. I didn’t get round to responding to all your messages. Sometimes even sending a message requires more energy than I have.

But even just knowing that people are thinking of you feels supportive.

I don’t know what my Substack will look like for now. I’ll write as and when I’m up to it. There’s no plan, and I’m going to try not to put pressure on myself to have one.

This week, I’ve been enjoying cuddles from my boys and the cooler climes of the Scottish ‘summer’. Oh, how lucky I feel.

Sending huge hugs to you all.

Thank you for being here.

With much love from the croft,

xx

How are you this week? I hope you’ve been able to enjoy a few gentle rays of sunshine on your face and that life hasn’t felt too hectic.

I didn’t post last week because I took a few days away from the heat of New Delhi and escaped to Rishikesh with one of my oldest friends. It’s a place made famous after The Beatles visited an ashram there in the 1960s. It has long been known as the Yoga and Spiritual Capital of the World, although what we found was perhaps a little different from what they would have experienced.

We stayed in the quieter area of Tapovan, just north of the city. It was white water rafting season, so the streets were busy. Jeeps packed with tourists sped down the narrow roads with inflatable rafts strapped to their roofs, and horns filled the air from morning until night. The river itself was a constant stream of rafts from 8am to 6pm. Monkeys scaled up the walls and leapt across balconies as though they owned the place. It was chaotic. Certainly not an advert for peace and tranquility.

Thankfully, our apartment was tucked away from the noise, and our host, Swami, couldn’t have been more different from the world outside. He was one of the calmest, most peaceful people I have ever met. Being around him felt like co-regulation for my nervous system. I left our conversations feeling lighter.

We woke at 5am to watch the sunrise. The sky didn’t put on much of a show, but it still felt like a beautiful way to greet the day and a small tribute to the summer solstice that I would usually mark back home. Afterwards, we dipped into the Ganga, water flowing directly from the Himalayas. Swami spoke passionately about its healing qualities, believing it carries the energy of the plants, minerals and life of the mountains themselves.

It really was a beautiful trip. And yet, it wasn’t the place that stayed with me.

Since she left, I’ve realised the thing I’ve been thinking about isn’t Rishikesh at all. It’s our friendship.

We’ve now been friends for eighteen years. We met while working together in a bar in Edinburgh, just before we both started nursing degrees at different universities. She only lived in Edinburgh for six weeks before returning to Ireland for study. This timeline makes it remarkable that something so enduring grew from such a short window of time.

I think that’s one of the gifts of youth. You’re able to throw yourself into people so completely. We spent countless evenings together fuelled by cheap drinks, late nights, and the kind of confidence that only comes from not yet knowing very much about life. We were feral and untethered, a version of me that feels almost unrecognisable to me now.

I’ve written before about how lucky I feel to have gathered such wonderful women throughout my life. Each friendship arrived in a different season. Some of my closest friends have only ever known the sober version of me: the organised one who plans ahead, packs snacks, and can usually be guaranteed to be in bed before ten. Others knew the version who survived on very little sleep, far too much alcohol, and an unwavering belief that everything would somehow work out. What I love most is that these friendships have survived every version of us.

We’ve been carefree students, newly qualified nurses trying to find our feet, women navigating careers, relationships and motherhood. We’ve both changed enormously over the years, but somehow we’ve changed at a similar pace. The friendship has adapted alongside us. It’s no longer built on wild nights or stories we’ll repeat between laughter that leaves us breathless. It’s built on warmth, familiarity and the comfort of being completely ourselves.

One of my favourite moments from the trip was simply being quiet together.

Comfortable silence is one of the truest signs of deep friendship. When the foundations are solid, there’s no need to fill every pause. We spent hours in a beautiful café, sharing good food, coffee and smoothies before disappearing into our own books. Every now and then, one of us would look up to share a thought or recommend a paragraph. Mostly, we just enjoyed sitting alongside one another.

We loved the café so much that we went back the next day without even pretending to look anywhere else.

As we sat there, we watched younger travellers who reminded us so much of ourselves fifteen years ago: beautiful, carefree and carrying nothing heavier than a yoga mat. I couldn’t help smiling at how different we are now. I was wearing clothes that prioritised sun protection over style, refusing to sit on the floor cushions because I knew I’d struggle to be comfortable, and doing that familiar little hobble after standing that seems to arrive somewhere in your forties.

It made me laugh, but it also made me feel incredibly grateful.

I’ve spent a lot of time recently thinking about what it means to grow older. It’s easy to focus on the things we’ve lost: the energy, the spontaneity, the body. But there is so much we’ve gained too.

There is something deeply reassuring about having people in your life who have witnessed almost every version of you and still choose to stay. People who remember who you were before you became who you are now. Friendships that no longer need entertaining or proving. They simply exist faithfully.

This trip left me feeling especially grateful for the people who have grown alongside me.

Thank you to all my wonderful warrior women. I love you all.

With massive hugs and love from India xx

The change is immediate. The air feels cooler. The sky is heavier. The scent of rain lingers. There are enormous puddles, muddy roads, and wet feet, but somehow none of that matters quite as much as the relief the rains bring. For now at least.

I recently read that the first rains of the season are often experienced spiritually as a reminder of the connection between life, the land, and the rhythms of nature. The rains bring relief, greenery, and renewed life.

Perhaps that’s why this week feels different.

This is my seventh week in India, and I’ve finally started to settle.

There has been a shift. The best word for it is comfort. I feel more comfortable with the noise, the stares, and even crossing the busy roads.

Every time I make it safely across one, I want to dance around with glee, punch the air, and high-five the other pedestrians that we made it. Honestly, it feels like quite an achievement and makes me incredibly grateful I don’t have my children in tow.

The roads themselves have become even more adventurous since the rains arrived. Nisha says drainage isn’t really considered when roads are built. First they build the road and then they think about drainage. Even a short rain shower creates muddy puddles everywhere. I suspect this will become more problematic as the monsoon gathers momentum.

For now, though, I am simply enjoying the cooler temperatures.

In Ayurvedic medicine my dosha is Pitta. Stereotypically, Pittas become aggravated by excessive heat. Whether that’s scientifically true or not, it certainly feels true for me. My body seems calmer now that the temperatures have dropped.

Perhaps that’s why I’ve always felt drawn to Scotland. Her cold seas and wild weather have a way of settling my nervous system. I enjoy sunshine and warmth, but I think I’m naturally better suited to cooler climates.

Although I must admit there is something wonderful about stepping outside in shorts and a T-shirt first thing in the morning and feeling perfectly comfortable.

My body has still found something to complain about, however.

This week I had to visit a physio. It turns out that transitioning from full-time motherhood to spending large portions of the day curled up reading books has not been particularly beneficial for my posture.

Apparently I may continue reading, but only while sitting upright in a chair with both feet firmly on the floor. Where is the joy in that?

The physio is a petite woman who can’t be much taller than five feet. She assured me she would be gentle. If that was her being gentle, I dread to think what she’s doing to the other patients. It felt like some kind of medieval torture session.

I asked whether she makes grown men cry.

“Yes,” she replied.

I believe her.

The good news is that I could genuinely feel my body opening up as she worked. Afterwards I felt taller, looser, and strangely energised. No pain, no gain.

One of my greatest discoveries this week has been a beautiful bookshop and café near my apartment.

Although I’m living in a city, I’ve been missing the simple pleasure of finding a quiet corner close by to sit with a book and a cup of tea. Around me there are mostly juice stalls and street food carts, which I have to avoid because my immune system is low and I need to be particularly careful about hygiene. Plus, standing on a busy street isn’t quite the ambient vibe I’m searching for.

Someone had previously taken me to a bookshop in a local mall, but it was one of those places where books were stacked into every available corner. I know many people love that aesthetic, but I find it overwhelming. Too cluttered. Too chaotic.

I’d spotted this new place on Google Maps near the physio and decided to investigate.

It was everything I had hoped for.

Calm. Spacious. Quiet.

A small pocket of stillness in the middle of a busy city.

As I sat there with my tea, I pondered that perhaps the monsoon isn’t just changing the landscape around me.

The roads are muddier. The trees are greener. The air is cooler.

But something in me has shifted too.

The noise, the crowds, the heat, the unfamiliarity of it all, none of those things have disappeared. Yet they seem to take up less space inside me than they did six weeks ago.

Like the land around me, I feel as though I’m softening.

So I feel incredibly lucky to be here at the beginning of the monsoon season. Not just to witness the changes it brings around me, but to notice the subtle changes it seems to be bringing within me as well.

And perhaps, with a little rain and a little patience, some of the seeds I’ve been sowing internally will begin to sprout.

Wishing you a beautiful week.

With much love and hugs from New Delhi xx

I am transitioning from doing into being.

I’m only at the centre two days a week, which means I have a lot of time that belongs entirely to me.

I could choose to fill it. After all, I’m in India. There is plenty to see, do and experience. It would be easy to keep myself busy.

But something inside me knows this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A rare season where I can focus purely on myself and what is best for me. Not in a selfish way, but in a way that feels deeply necessary.

This isn’t the time for continuing patterns that stretch back through generations. The belief that every spare minute should be filled, every moment accounted for, every day measured by how much was achieved.

I don’t think there are many forty-year-old women with families who get the chance to step away from their lives for a while. So although it’s incredibly hard not being centre stage in my role as Mum, I can also see this experience for what it is.

A gift.

Space for nothing.

My host, Nisha, keeps telling me I need to go and do things instead of reading so much. She’s single and doesn’t have children. She hasn’t walked the same road I have. She sees opportunity where I see recovery.

I don’t think she fully understands why sitting with a book can feel like exactly what I need.

She can’t know how much of myself I have willingly poured into my husband and children over the years. Not because they demanded it. Ok, they demanded it a little. But mostly because I wanted to give it. I loved giving it.

And that’s on top of establishing a croft and having cancer.

If I’m honest, it’s exhausted me in ways I struggle to put into words. My body has already been through so much in its short existence.

So being in India feels like pressing a reset button for my soul.

Every day I’m learning to ask myself what I need. I’m paying attention to my energy instead of overriding it. If my plans no longer feel right, I change them. There are no rigid schedules to follow and no expectations to meet.

And yet I find myself settling naturally into a rhythm.

The weather guides much of it. I walk in the mornings and again in the late afternoons when the temperatures are more forgiving. I just need to make it home before mosquito o’clock because they seem particularly fond of the Scottish buffet.

In between those walks, I read.

Sometimes in the park if it’s not too sweltering. I’ve read an absurd number of books since arriving here. I’m a fast reader and if I’m enjoying a book I can devour it in a day or two. Back home, reading is often squeezed into twenty minutes before sleep. Here, I’ve had whole afternoons to disappear into another world.

Sometimes I do yoga. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I use my sauna bed. Occasionally I take a small trip to meet friends.

The point is that I can feel myself slowing down.

Really slowing down.

And becoming comfortable with not filling every minute.

Alongside the slowing I’m aware of a discomfort. A voice that whispers I should be doing more. That I shouldn’t be sitting down. That I shouldn’t be resting. That I should make better use of my time.

But why?

If I really listen to that voice, it’s not actually mine.

I don’t believe what it’s saying.

It’s the voice so many of us carry around without questioning. The voice that tells us we should be productive, always moving, always making ourselves useful.

I witness it in other people and I hear it within myself.

Maybe it’s the inheritance of previous generations. Maybe it’s what happens when we spend our lives watching the women around us constantly doing, giving and sacrificing. We absorb the message that this is what makes us worthy.

So we keep going.

Even when we’re tired.

Who decided that rest must be earned?

Generations of women have watched their mothers and grandmothers move from one task to the next, rewarding themselves with a hard-earned cup of tea only once everything was finished.

The problem is that the list is never finished.

There is always another load of washing. Another email. Another errand. Another responsibility waiting impatiently in the wings.

A friend told me my mum dropped by her house the other day and she felt guilty for watching television in the middle of the afternoon. Like she’d been caught doing something wrong.

She’d been struggling with a virus for two weeks that had completely drained her energy.

Yet she still felt guilty about being seen resting.

How deeply ingrained is that?

Perhaps the radical idea is this.

Sitting down doesn’t have to be a reward.

Lets let rest simply be something we do because we’re human.

What are we all rushing towards if we never get to enjoy being here?

What happens if we pause between tasks instead of immediately reaching for the next one? If we listen more closely to what we need rather than what we think we should do?

And what if we extend that same grace to others?

Maybe someone cancels plans because they aren’t feeling social. Maybe someone chooses rest over productivity. Maybe someone honours a boundary that we don’t fully understand.

Can we respect that without judgement?

I think the ability to honour other people’s boundaries begins with learning to recognise our own.

And that’s what this season is teaching me.

Not how to do more.

But how to be.

I hope you find pockets of guilt free rest within your week.

With much love and hugs from New Delhi xx

The parks are what strike me most.

During the cooler hours of morning and dusk they fill with life. Not one activity or group, but dozens. People exercising. Children playing. Older people sitting together. Friends talking. Nobody seems to need an organised event to justify gathering.

The park feels like an extension of the living room. A playground, a gym, a meeting place and a dining room all at once.

If you want to see your friends, you just can. No booking. No organising. No tidying. It allows a much more agreeable flow state than the Scottish climate, where horizontal rain and gale-force winds can ruin even the best intentions in the middle of summer.

I had assumed community was mostly cultural.

Now I wonder how much of it is meteorological.

The climate allows people to encounter one another.

In Scotland, community often requires determination. Events planned in advance. Contingency plans for every eventuality. Gathering takes effort. Here, life seems to spill naturally into shared spaces.

I notice it beyond the parks too.

Several new buildings are going up around us. Yet these are not construction sites sealed off from family life. They are places where life and work happen together.

Whole families seem involved in the build. Adults work. Children play nearby. Meals are cooked and eaten on site. Construction is not separated from family life; it is family life.

Nisha tells me these families live on site throughout the build and will eventually move into the building once it is complete. They are the people who know exactly how it was put together, so it makes sense that they often become its caretakers when things go wrong. The work not only provides an income during construction but often a home afterwards.

I see the same thing on the roads. Men and women working side by side. Women carrying bricks on their heads alongside men. Groups felling trees. Teams carrying, digging, lifting and sweeping. Work seems less the responsibility of an individual and more often the concern of a group.

Perhaps I notice it because I come from almost the opposite reality.

At home on our croft, independence is a virtue. We grow food, raise animals and take pride in managing for ourselves. Space is abundant. People are not.

In Delhi, space is scarce and people are everywhere.

Perhaps what I am seeing is what happens when people spend much of their lives in public and in company. When children grow up surrounded not only by parents but by neighbours, workers, grandparents and strangers. When daily life unfolds where other people can see it.

At home, I can give thanks for anonymity. My presence is unremarkable.

Here, the opposite is true.

I can be fairly certain I am the talk of the park.

Most people stare. I am laughed at, and no, I’m not being paranoid. Every now and then a brave child is encouraged by their friends to come and practise the little English they have learned. It’s usually met with squeals of delight. Sometimes we attract a crowd of other children who have been too shy to speak. With my limited Hindi I can’t be very interesting company, but it seems to provide a few minutes of entertainment for them.

At first I found it unsettling. On days when I simply want to go for a walk without being stared at, it can be difficult.

We are trained from a young age not to stare. I still remember being scolded by my mum the first time I saw and stared at a black man. You learn quickly not to notice when somebody stands out. It’s the British way.

But curiosity is not the same as hostility.

The hard stares often dissolve into beaming smiles when I say, “Namaste.”

When people spend so much of their lives in public spaces, perhaps they also have permission to be openly curious about one another.

After all, I’m a novelty. I haven’t seen another foreigner in this part of the city. If an Indian family suddenly appeared every afternoon at my local park back home, I suspect they would become the subject of discussion too, just not as openly.

Again my thoughts return to how much of life in Britain is organised around coping alone.

If you are having a hard time, you retreat indoors until you are ready to face the world again. We rarely give the wider community the opportunity to show up for us. Self-sufficiency is admired. Independence is praised.

But watching Delhi go about its ordinary business, I find myself wondering if there is another kind of strength in expecting other people to be there.

It’s certainly something I am trying to relearn.

With huge hugs from New Delhi xx

This week, as well as hiding from the excessive heat, I have been paying attention to the ordinary things, the ones that usually slip past unnoticed.

The small moments that disappear if you are not looking for them.

We often get so caught up in life that everyday goodness goes uncelebrated. And when that happens, it becomes easy to believe that nothing good is happening at all.

I read a quote that said, “Maybe the amount of good things in your life depends on your ability to notice them.”

So this week I’m paying attention.

I have been in India for four weeks now, and I feel so much better than when I first arrived. I am no longer in pain. My blood levels are improving week by week. Progress that felt out of reach at the start of the year now feels tangible.

And I have really landed on my feet with my host.

Before coming here, I wanted to live with a single Indian woman, someone with inside knowledge of the area and of life here in general. That is exactly what I found. Not only that, she has taken over the meal plan designed by the centre, and the food she cooks is beyond delicious. I genuinely have no desire to eat out because honestly, why would I when home tastes like this.

At home, I used to struggle with keeping any kind of meal plan going. I did not have the capacity to think through different diets, shop, and cook consistently. Now I do not have to. This has given me more space to rest, something I did not realise I was so depleted of.

One of the biggest adjustments for me has been having a home helper.

She does most of the cooking and cleaning. At first, I felt uncomfortable with it. I was not used to accepting that kind of help so openly. But now, I genuinely do not know how I will go back to managing everything alone.

Here, having your home help on holiday is considered a completely legit reason for sympathy. People understand that doing it all alone is exhausting. You can leave work early or take time off and no one questions it. Everyone just gets it.

And the truth is, it really is too much to do alone.

It has made me think differently about how much we expect people to carry by themselves in Western life, especially when life is increasingly busy and increasingly isolated. We should be building a gentler way of living for the next generation. I hope they do not have to shoulder the same weight.

Saturdays are my big treatment days. I have chemo alongside a mix of complementary therapies. They are very different from the retreat Wednesdays I used to give myself back home in Scotland.

It is harder to fully switch off at the centre because there are always people around with fascinating stories and knowledge to share. So instead of retreat Wednesdays, it feels more like social Saturdays.

There are still moments of stillness throughout the day, time to sit, to breathe, to meditate, alongside enough green tea to keep my needs met.

My weekdays are the complete opposite of my life back home, calm, quiet, unstructured in the best way. I can think about what I want to do, not what I should do. So by the time treatment day comes, I actually have energy to spare.

There is also a real sense of community at the centre.

Everyone who walks through the door is there for the same reason, so there is an immediate camaraderie. Even though every person has their own story, there is a shared understanding underneath it all. Most patients just get it. They understand your methods, your fears, and the strange routines treatment creates.

One of the patients ran a yoga class for us last week, which was really beautiful. Another suggested a community offering, a space where anyone who feels like it can host something for the group. It is such a simple idea, but it creates something meaningful when you are far from home.

It feels very different from anything I experienced in the UK treatment centres I used to frequent.

I have been easing myself gently into life in this vast city. I am not in the main New Delhi district (thank goodness), so while there is plenty of daytime commotion, the area still feels surprisingly local and communal.

I see the same faces often.

And there are parks everywhere. In the mornings and evenings they are full, not with dog walkers, but with people exercising, children playing, and women gathering for their daily chats. There is a steady, unspoken rhythm to it all, small pockets of calm within the noise.

The little things, the ones I might have missed before, are the things holding me together.

What small ordinary goodness has happened to you this week?

And if nothing comes to mind straight away, keep your eyes open next week. Really look for it.

With much love and big hugs from New Delhi xx

As I’m writing this, there have been 607 donations to my GoFundMe. It’s been hard to keep track of it all. Probably 50% of those donations came from people who didn’t even know me. Until my page found them, they’d never even heard of Gem. But they donated anyway.

I can’t explain what a beautiful feeling that fills my being with.

My host over here is a wonderful lady called Nisha. She is Hindu and regularly shares little Hindu pearls of wisdom during our chats. Today she was talking about karmic debt, and I enjoyed thinking about this as me cashing some of mine in.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, but I didn’t really have the words. When I was recovering after my last chemo in Scotland, I sat on a pebble beach thinking about all the people who had supported us in some way. Each person felt like a pebble.

Before I left, I was sitting with my friend Susan in our usual spot in her garden. Sun on our faces, birds in the background, tea in our hands, having the kind of weekly mum catch-up where you’re semi concentrating on each other, semi watching the kids, mostly redirecting them to stop interrupting, while trying to remember everything you both wanted to say in the space of an hour, so you end up frequently forgetting what you were saying and talking really fast.

I told her I could feel all these hands of support on my back.

I imagine it must be what crowd surfing feels like. Being carried safely by other people until your time in the crowd is up and you’re gently laid back down again.

Beyond the GoFundMe, there have been fundraising events organised for us too. Each one brought its own strong community. Two happened within our local community, and my husband and kids were completely blown away by the turnout.

Everyone in our family has been overwhelmed by the generosity of their friends.

It has all been one of the most heartwarming experiences of our lives.

My husband and I can both admit we’ve never been very good at accepting help. When you have high standards, it’s often easier to do things yourself because nobody else will do it quite your way. But, as I’ve said before, I’m in recovery from that part of my personality.

My motto now is: “There’s more than one way to do the dishes.”

Collectively, we had formed this habit of batting away offers of help.

But now I say yes.

And I wanted to write about what actually helps when you’re in a position like ours. When your brain is so full you can barely think straight. When life feels uncertain. When noise is coming at you from every direction.

This doesn’t just apply to cancer. It can be anything that turns your world upside down.

At times like these, the simplest things are the best.

I know when difficult things happen, people genuinely want to help. But many don’t know how. Sometimes they don’t know the person well. Sometimes they simply don’t know what would help.

I’m going to say this gently because I know it always comes from kindness, but there’s a phrase people often say that can feel surprisingly difficult:

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

At a time when you can barely remember your own date of birth, having to think of ways to be helped feels impossible.

Occasionally I manage to use my precious brain space to think of something someone could help with. I reach out. They can’t do that day. And suddenly my energy is gone. It took everything I had just to get that far.

Daily life doesn’t stop just because your world has fallen apart. So if someone can remove even one tiny thing from the mental load, we will worship them forever.

Meals for the freezer.
Offering to hoover or clean a couple of rooms.
Taking the kids out for an hour (or a couple of days).
Bringing dinner if you’re coming to stay.
Chopping logs (although honestly I don’t think there are any left because my powerhouse of an uncle has already done them all).
Offering to do one DIY job.
Paying for my massage.

Going over for a specific task.
“Hey, I’m here to do this while you go and lie down on your bed for an hour.”

Offering the space to go and lie down while you clean the kitchen would honestly probably make me weep.

These little things keep people afloat when they feel like they’re drowning.

And the permission not to have to “host” is huge.

Someone offered to do our laundry. Literally taking a load off.

Another friend went through my to-do list and put items on hers instead.

Truly, if Substack did emojis, this whole piece would just be covered in hearts.

None of this has to happen every week. You want to support people, not exhaust yourself trying to save them. It’s a careful balance.

If you’re not in a place to help right now, that’s ok too. We’ve all got our own shit going on. Don’t drown yourself trying to save somebody else. Only do what you’re genuinely capable of.

There are some incredibly special people who have gone above and beyond for us. I can’t list all the ways people have helped because you’d never make it to the end of what I’m writing.

But if you ever need your faith in humanity restored, look for the helpers. The ones who step in after something terrible has happened. They are the light in the darkness.

We are truly grateful for every single person who has shown us love through this journey.

I’m smiling as I write this. How could I not, thinking about each and every person who has supported us?

I’d really love to hear from you on this.

What’s a small act of kindness that genuinely helped you in a hard time, or that you’ve done for someone else that really made a difference?

The practical, unglamorous everyday kind of help is what I’m most curious about. I’d love to have some gems up my sleeve.

Sending you so much love and so many hugs from New Delhi xx

I hope you can enjoy something that truly brings you joy today.

I have a little blistering on my feet (thanks, chemo side effects), so I’ve opted to remain indoors without my sandals off in case they’re making it worse. So I’ve read, done a little yoga, and enjoyed a few laps of the park. I couldn’t actually stay indoors all day. I have been feeling a little lost, but these small things ground me.

As Lao Tzu wrote, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Mostly, being here is daunting. I’ve stepped far beyond the edges of my comfort zone and found myself in a foreign land I never imagined I would visit.

It’s hot. I’m sweaty and sticky all the time, apart from the sweet five minutes of sprawling across the bed after a shower.

There are people and rubbish everywhere I look.

Granted, the pace of movement and conversation is much slower than what I’m accustomed to, and I like it. Communication feels relaxed here. But the constant beeping of horns is unnerving. I’m adapting to not instantly thinking I’m doing something wrong or that I’m in the way. They’re beeping for some unknown reason to me, and that’s okay.

Before embarking on this journey, I had reached a period in life that felt mostly predictable. A funny thing to say when I’ve been blindsided by cancer twice, but even during treatment, routine becomes normal. Add married life and children into the mix, and most days followed a familiar structure.

The last ten years have been filled with a lot of happiness and sorrow.

We were married in 2015. By 2016, we were expecting our first child and welcomed a puppy into our lives. In 2017, we bought the croft and became parents.

Since then, life has been shaped by cancer twice, treatment, recovery, another pregnancy, raising two boys, and rebuilding life in between it all. We’ve developed the croft at a much slower pace than we ever imagined, continued through Covid, and learned again and again that we know very little about parenting.

We’ve also faced grief. The loss of our precious dog, who was the first baby of our family, the loss of friends to cancer and the loss of the life we thought we were building.

In 2026, I learned my treatment options in the UK were limited, and I made the decision to embark on an epic journey to India.

It’s quite the decade. No wonder I feel exhausted.

That all happened within the first ten years of our marriage. At least it’s strengthened our relationship in ways we didn’t know were possible.

Not exactly a predictable start to married life, but predictability still wove its threads through everything. Despite the adversity, routine and structure remained strong elements within our lives, mainly thanks to me. Who knows what’s going to happen while I’m away. But I steer my thoughts away from that line of thinking.

And now here I am.

A lone wolf halfway across the world from her pack.

My husband left three days ago.

And what I’m concentrating on is rest.

My whole body is craving freedom from responsibility. Freedom from constantly considering the needs of others before my own.

So I am choosing to recalibrate.

Choosing quiet.

Choosing to nourish my body with simple, whole foods.

And in doing these small tasks, I hope I can recover and begin to create space to process the last decade of my life.

Through small forms of healing, a bigger picture can begin to emerge.

Because happiness is the quality of our connection to this life.

And healing is too.

I feel as though something meaningful is waiting for me.

And I really look forward to welcoming it into my life.

Take care of yourself this week.

With much love and hugs from New Delhi xx

It’s been a few weeks since my last post. This is the longest stretch I’ve gone without writing since I started this blog in August 2025, and it has felt strange. After planning a last-minute trip to India and then making that journey, I was completely exhausted. My tank was empty and I didn’t have the mental capacity to write.

Since my last post, many more of you have subscribed. So first, hello, and thank you for being here. Many of you have also helped make it possible for me to make this journey, and I am so incredibly grateful for that.

If anything I write resonates with you, I would really love you to join me in the comments. You have just as much to say and contribute as I do.

For those of you who are new, I thought for this post I would reintroduce myself and share a little about my life right now.

My name is Gem, and I usually write from the north coast of Scotland. The skies are vast, the beaches are remote, the sea is cold, and the weather has a mind of its own. It is a rugged and beautiful place, and it is where I feel most at home.

I live on a small croft (a traditional Scottish smallholding) with my husband and our two boys, aged 9 and 4. We grow our own vegetables, care for the land, and have raised pigs for meat for ourselves and our local community. Health and connection to our food are central to how we live.

For the past eight years, I have also been living with cancer.

I was first diagnosed in 2018, when my eldest son was 11 months old, with primary breast cancer. Then in 2023, when my youngest was just 15 months old, I was diagnosed with secondary breast cancer that had spread to my liver and bones.

Our initial plan was to homeschool our children, to promote a slower way of life that aligns with nature. However, after my 2023 diagnosis, we decided that flexi-schooling would be the best option for us. The boys now attend school three days a week.

Now I am writing from India, where I have come to seek further treatment. My options in the UK felt incredibly limited, but I knew deeply that it was not time for me to say goodbye to this life yet.

For those of you who subscribed for my notes on motherhood, flexi-schooling, and crofting life, the next few months may look a little different.

I have currently relocated to New Delhi. It feels like a completely different world from home. It is busy, loud, and intense, but not quite as overwhelming as I had imagined, which I am grateful for. I have lived in a city before, so city life itself is not new to me, but an Indian city is something else entirely.

Honking your horn seems to be a language of its own on the roads, and driving into oncoming traffic appears to be perfectly acceptable. I am sure there are rules, but one week in, they make very little sense to me.

For now, I will be writing about my time here, the treatments I receive, and whatever else crops up along the way. It feels like uncharted territory. I never expected to find myself in India, but this experience is another reminder that life can take sudden unexpected turns, and that possibility exists even in the most uncertain moments.

One thing that does feel especially meaningful is a sense of closeness to my grandfather. He was born and raised in India, so being here feels like a connection to him. I get to experience a culture that shaped part of his life, and notice small things that make me smile, like the way he used to walk with his hands behind his back. I can see now where that came from.

For now, I will leave you here, with thanks and gratitude for being here and for reading what I have to say.

With much love and hugs from New Delhi xx

I hope you’ve been tilting your face toward the sun.

This week I’m writing something different.

There have been some big decisions made at Croft HQ this year. Not ones I’ve taken lightly, and not ones that have come easily.

Those of you who’ve followed me for a while will know I’m living with stage 4 cancer. At the start of this year, I was dealt another blow when my treatment changed. Last year, I felt like a “normal” person. I had energy. I wasn’t constantly battling aches and pains. I almost felt like I had the life expectancy of a healthy 39-year-old.

This year, everything feels heavier.

The mental load has been huge and it’s only April.

I lost a friend very suddenly, someone who was a real source of support. She was living with stage 4 cancer too, and we understood each other’s reality in a way that’s hard to find.

My pain has increased, and I no longer have the energy to do the things I love most. Activities now have to be carefully planned, and even then I sometimes have to cancel at the last minute. That’s not how I want to live my life, especially with two young, outdoor-loving children by my side.

I’m becoming more and more aware of how finite our time on earth really is.

Because of this, I’ve made the decision to explore other avenues, and that has led me to India for medical treatment.

I’ve carefully considered the options available to me in the UK, and I truly feel this is the path that gives me the best chance of more time with my family.

Honestly, I’m terrified.

I’ll be heading to New Delhi, the complete opposite of our tiny village on the north coast of Scotland.

But my family needs me. I believe this trip gives me a chance to be a healthier version of myself, and to have more time, and better time, with them.

So yes, I’m feeling a lot of fear. But I’m going anyway. Because ultimately, the only thing that matters to me is being here to see the boys grow.

A journey like this comes with a huge financial strain on our family. If you’re able to contribute in any way, we would be incredibly grateful. I completely understand that times are uncertain, so please don’t feel any pressure to give beyond your means. Your support, in whatever form it comes, means everything.

If you would like to help me on this journey, you can do so here:
https://gofund.me/862a11c66

Please note that GoFundMe automatically adds an optional tip at checkout. You can adjust this amount or set it to 0 if you prefer. This tip goes to the platform, not to me.

Donate to my GoFundMe

With my date of travel approaching, I may be quieter than usual on here while I adjust to a whole new way of living. I do plan to document my journey, and I’ll share updates once I’m settled.

Thank you for reading. Please take care of yourselves.
As always, with much love from the croft (soon to be New Delhi… eek!) xx

To start, I have two things to mention from the week.

The gorse is in full flowering mode. There are wafts of a beautiful coconut scent in the air, and it’s just gorgeous.

Secondly, we have planted around 2,000 trees on our croft over the years. About eight of these are bird cherry, which we planted six years ago. This week, dear reader, one of them finally came into blossom.

I am beyond excited to be having an almost blossoming cherry tree on our croft. Like, really. And I’m desperately hoping it clings on through the wind.

Despite that, I’ve been feeling a little unhinged recently.

I keep trying to work out whether it’s just been the last few weeks, or whether this has been building for most of the year.
Unfortunately, I think it’s the latter.

I can feel myself catapulting out of alignment, and it’s not a place I feel safe in.

Last year, my treatment was every three weeks. One week with steroids (that turn me into a person of the most chaotic kind), then time for my system to settle again. There was a rhythm to it. Space to recover. Space to breathe. As much as stage 4 cancer allows anyway.

Now I’m on a two-on, one-off rotation, and I genuinely don’t know whether I’m coming or going. It takes me at least 2 days to recover from my Wednesday steroids, so that leaves 5 days of ‘normality’. Add in treatment fatigue, weekly blood tests, phone calls, logistics, and suddenly life feels relentlessly, inescapably cancer-y.

Wednesdays used to be my day.

A strange thing to say about chemo days, but they were a kind of retreat. A pocket of stillness in the week. I’d sit in the comfy ass chair, meditate, drink tea I didn’t have to make, and for a few hours, I didn’t have to carry anything.

As a mum of two young, very attention-heavy children, that kind of space is rare.

But now?
My infusion takes five minutes.

Five.

It takes longer to access my port than it does to deliver the treatment.

And I’m surprised by how much that loss of that protected time has hit me. That enforced stillness. That small, sacred pause where I was allowed to do nothing.

And without that, everything feels louder.

The logistics. The decisions. The constant back and forth of managing treatment while trying to live something that resembles a normal life. Trying to be present. Trying to make it all meaningful for my children.

My system can’t keep up.

So my world has started to shrink rapidly.

Messages go unanswered. Plans feel impossible. I cry, a lot, because sometimes the weight of all of this is just too much to hold. If I zoom out and really look at what we’re carrying, I don’t quite understand how we’re still functioning.

It doesn’t feel like we are. Not really.

The croft, the house, those dreams feel far away right now. This isn’t about building a life. It’s about getting through the day.

Pain has affected my walks, which are usually how I steady myself. I’ve tried sitting outside instead, but the wind, the cold, the sudden hail, it all feels like too much in a body that already feels fragile.

Someone said that holding a glass of water at arm’s length feels easy at first. But the longer you hold it, the heavier it becomes, until it’s unbearable.

That glass of water is my cancer.

And right now, it feels unbearable.

It’s often easier, to ourselves and to other people, to say we’re okay. That we’re coping. That we’ve got this. And sometimes, that is the truth.

But my moods swing so wildly that I can be here, writing this, feeling like everything is too much, and tomorrow I might wake up with a burst of energy that feels almost superhuman.

And that’s one of the hardest parts.

Not knowing.
Not being able to plan.
Living in the constant uncertainty of what my body will allow.

And if you’re telling yourself that I’m strong, or brave, or somehow extraordinary for living with cancer, I want to gently say:

I’m not a superhero.

I keep going because I have to. Because something deep within me, like in all of us, wants to survive.

Do I do it bravely?

Sometimes yes.
And sometimes, with a very ugly cry face and snot I can’t control.

But I’m still here. Fumbling through. And something in me somewhere is still trying to blossom.

Sending huge hugs to you.
With much love from the croft xx

Today feels different. It’s inviting.

I’ve just come back from a walk where I sat on my bench, perfectly placed above the deserted beach.

Now I’m sitting on another bench, outside the caravan, soaking up the sun and the yellow of the emerging daffodils, drinking tea of course, and listening to birds chatter and flutter around the bird table and beyond. It really is beautiful to be here.

On my way back from the beach, my bird app told me there were skylarks and meadow pipits hiding in the grass on our croft. I wish I didn’t have to rely on an app to tell me, but I’m glad it’s there. Hopefully, one day, the sounds will live in my memory.

I also spotted a wren, no app needed for that one, finding mid-morning snacks in our old dry stone dyke. An unexpected ecosystem for a bird’s breakfast. A much better restaurant than a wire fence. Less effective at keeping jumping sheep out, but there’s always a trade-off.

We have both around our land. Old, crumbling dykes and new wire fencing. Maybe we can plant our trees and keep them.

This is a photo of the sky, the dyke and wire fencing, so you can picture it a bit better. The wee wren didn’t fancy being in the shot unfortunately.

Anyway, I’m letting the steroids get carried away again.

This is a post I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s been a rough few days for me. I wrote about that yesterday, but I’ll save it for another time.

For now, a the boost of steroids has given me the energy to get out of bed and remain pain-free for a few days. So I’m going to embrace that, tentatively, because it feels good, but I’m also aware I can overdo it.

And now onto the post… congratulations if you’ve stuck with me this far.

Hi. My name is Gem, and I am an over-functioner.

Phew. It feels good to write that.

I didn’t realise how much of my life was built on over-functioning until I tried to stop.

I used to be the one who managed everything. It made me feel needed. Powerful. Like I was earning my place, and maybe respect.

It started when I was growing up. I’m a natural caretaker. A leader. Bossy, as my family used to call it (and probably still do). A textbook Capricorn, oldest child, you know the remit.

I was an only child until I was ten, and then my younger brother arrived. I loved looking after him. As I got older, we would go on day trips together, and I’d let him do things our parents wouldn’t. Changing the gear in the car, sitting on my knee to “drive” along farm tracks. Never on actual roads, obviously.

He came to visit me in my student flats, and we’d do “cool” things for the weekend. The kind of things big sisters are there for.

When I first went to uni and lived with a group of boys who had never lived away from home, I became the one who created order. The one who complained when they had parties the night before my early lectures. The one who got frustrated when they didn’t tidy up.

Working in hospitality, and later as an A&E nurse, I thrived in chaos. I could juggle everything. Multitask, as it’s affectionately called. These days, I don’t think multitasking should even exist. Do one job at a time. Do it well. And don’t let the porridge burn while you’re out chopping firewood (that one’s for my husband, not me, obviously).

I carried that same energy into my personal life. I took care of my flatmate and my partner. Looking back, I treated them more like dependents than equals. I paid the bills, kept track of everything, and then told them what they owed me.

Then the same pattern carried into parenthood.

Every area of my life was unbalanced. I just couldn’t see it through the blur of exhaustion, newborns, and cancer.

Even then, I tried to keep everything running. To stay the strong one. To hold it all together, even when my body was telling me, very clearly, that something had to change.

When people tried to show up for me, I wouldn’t let them. I was so hyper-independent that I brushed off offers of help without even noticing.

I still do this. But at least I can see it now, and I’m slowly learning to say yes.

With my strong Capricorn instinct for reading subtle signs, I find myself assessing whether the person offering help is honouring their own limits or overreaching. Often, the desire to help is there, but not always the capacity to do so without sacrificing their own needs. It becomes an exhausting dance.

I was the one who had it handled. The one who anticipated problems before they happened. The reliable one. The strong one.

But living this way didn’t leave room for anything else. And it’s an identity I no longer want to carry.

It didn’t give life a chance to unfold differently. And it turns out my idea of what “strong” meant was completely wrong.

Eventually, my body said no.

The breaking point came last year when I realised I had built a life that only worked if I held it all together. And I couldn’t do that anymore.

I needed to come back to something steadier. Something closer to homeostasis. I had to let go and allow things to happen without controlling every outcome.

And if things fell apart because I wasn’t pre-planning every move, that was okay.

It was never my job in the first place.

Letting go felt deeply uncomfortable. This pattern is at least 30 years old. It doesn’t just disappear overnight.

There was, and still is, resistance. From me, and from the people around me who are used to me holding everything together.

But underneath that discomfort, there is deep relief.

The over-functioner in me still speaks up. She still wants to take charge, to fix, to anticipate.

Now, I let her speak.
I listen.
And then I thank her.

Because she isn’t wrong. She’s just from a different version of me. One who believed she had to earn her place by carrying everything.

But she isn’t the one leading anymore.

So when the thoughts come, I should handle this, no one else has thought of this, it will fall apart if I don’t step in, I let them pass.

Things still unfold.

Sometimes I’m just closing my eyes, humming to myself, or taking deep breaths in the bathroom.

And maybe it’s a little messier. A little slower. A little faffier.

But there’s also room for beauty I didn’t plan for. Room for other people to show their gifts.

And I’m no longer trying to fix everything, keep everyone comfortable, and betray myself in the process.

Now, I have energy, and I choose where to spend it.

Energy for myself. And energy for the people in my life, when I have the capacity.

There is no longer a constant thread of resentment running underneath everything, because I’m no longer doing things no one asked me to do and then feeling unseen.

People are meeting me halfway.

And the ones who aren’t?

They were never meant to stay.

As I write this, I can’t help but think I’m living a very classic rite of passage. A 40-year-old woman learning herself. Learning her boundaries.

What a cliché.

But also a journey I’m meant to take.

As always, thank you for being here with me this week.

With much love from the croft xx

P.S. I’m also including a photo from my walk down to the beach. A few of you said how much you enjoyed the photos last week, so it feels nice to share a little glimpse of where I am.

So we leaned into it.
And, honestly, went a little stir crazy.

The kids and I kitted ourselves out for what we call Spring Watch. Every bug-hunting kit, flower press, and battered nature guide was gathered. Baskets stuffed, wellies on, we headed out.

The energy was immediate. Electric.

This is the reason I chose to homeschool.

I wanted them to feel this. To be excited by the world just as it is. To notice the seasons not as background noise, but as something alive and changing around them. To light up at the return of lesser celandine, primroses, caterpillars. Tiny, ordinary miracles.

And they did.

They were so excited I could barely keep up. The only moment of peace came when I made them each choose a tree to sit in and told them they couldn’t talk for one minute. I wanted them to hear what the tree had to say.

My eldest, now nearly nine, led the expedition with the confidence of someone who has been paying attention for years.
“I know this is where they grow,” he said at one point, completely certain, pointing to a huge clump of primrose.
“These are my spots.”

Those words made my heart sing.

We wandered. We stopped. We crouched low to inspect things I once would have walked straight past. I watched them explore our small corner of the world with such awe and wonder, and it felt profoundly like we were exactly where we were meant to be.

We kicked off shoes and socks and ran straight into the sea.
Obviously, they ran straight back out again.

But it was the gesture. The cleansing of winter. The aliveness of spring.

Standing there, laughing, sand-blasted and fully awake, I felt deeply grateful. Grateful that this is our Friday morning. That this is what learning sometimes looks like for us.

While elsewhere, classrooms carried on as usual.

After my diagnosis, we made the difficult decision to flexi-school. They are now in school three days a week. It was not part of the plan, and there is a sadness that comes with that. In my heart, I had imagined days like this being our every day.

But the reality of cancer treatment, neurodiversity, and a large age gap made it too difficult to continue along the path we had carved out for ourselves.

That is why I cherish days like this. Why I sometimes give more energy than I really have.
I spent nearly two days in bed after this excursion, which, if anything, confirmed why we had to choose flexi-school.

But it is my way of holding onto the life I imagined, in the moments where I still can.

And perhaps most importantly, it is my chance to pass on a lifelong love of nature.

I wrote this piece last weekend. Since then, the weather has turned again, back to winter. Walks have become a game of chance, sun or hail, sometimes both. The wind remains constant.

But still, the first day of spring was wonderful.

I hope the sun finds you this week, wherever you are, and that you begin to notice the world reawakening.

With much love from the croft xx

This week I feel more aligned within myself. The alarm bells aren’t ringing quite so loudly. The sun has made an appearance again, and there’s a welcome lift in the collective spirit.

For me, it’s been a week of gentle expansion after a period of deep contraction. I’m moving cautiously. The crash a few weeks ago reminded me how fragile the whole system can be, how quickly things can unravel if pushed too far. So I’m letting it unfold slowly rather than rushing it.

It feels in rhythm with the earth as she begins to wake from her wintery slumber. My own winter seems to be loosening its grip. Though if I’m honest, I think I spend much of my year there, so even the smallest emergence feels like something to savour.

In this space, I’ve been appreciating the friendships I have more deeply, and also questioning what friendship really is.

There was a time when I thought it only counted if it was deep and searching, the kind of conversations where you peel everything back and sit in the raw truth of things. I still crave that, but something in me is shifting. I’m learning to accept each interaction as it comes. Even the lighter moments, the small exchanges, they have value and can lift the spirit if you let them.

Alongside that, a question keeps returning.

Where are the elders?

Not just the elderly, but the elders. The ones who carry stories. The ones who have lived through it and come out the other side with soft eyes and steady hands. The ones who can sit beside you in the thick of it and say, “I’ve been there. Keep going.”

I read Hagitude by Sharon Blackie, and one idea stayed with me, that menopausal women are “elders in training.” That it’s not something to hide, but a turning point into something wiser and more self-possessed. It made me realise how little space our culture holds for that kind of wisdom, and how far we’ve drifted from intergenerational connection.

We live in fragmented ways now. Individualised. Isolated. I have wonderful friends, but most are my own age, all navigating similar highs and lows with limited energy to spare. That’s not a failing, it’s just the reality of how modern life is structured.

But I find myself longing for something else.

Not constant closeness or people always in my space, but the presence of those who have already walked parts of the path I’m on. Not people fumbling alongside me, but people who know. Who have faced loss and uncertainty and lived through it.

Someone who can say not just “it’ll all work out,” but “even if it doesn’t, you will find a way to live with that too.”

There’s a steadiness in that. A deeper reassurance.

Somewhere along the way, we’ve stopped listening for those voices. We’ve also lost the quieter, older knowledge. Plant names, bird calls, the rhythms of the seasons. Things people once just knew. I’m finding myself learning them from scratch alongside my kids, wanting them to know the life beneath their feet and around them.

And I keep coming back to women.

The ones who notice. Who read the signs. Who know when you’re stuck before you’ve said it out loud. The medicine women, the wild women, each carrying their own kind of knowing. But that circle feels fractured now. Harder to find.

Maybe that’s why multigenerational friendships feel so important.

When we first moved to the coast, we had a neighbour named Irene, or Heccerene as we affectionately call her in our house. She was in her eighties when we met, sharp, sassy, and completely uninterested in filtering herself. We became friends in that easy, unexpected way that sometimes happens across generations.

From her, I learned that as you get older, you care less about what people think. You stop overthinking how your words will land. You just say what you see.

“Your kids should go to school.”
“What have you done to your hair?”
“Why have your jeans got holes in the knees” (because I really can’t be assed to buy a new pair).

And then you carry on with your day.

She’s in her nineties now. Less mobile, less independent, but still absolutely rocking it. Still sharp. Still entirely herself.

She’s shown me something about freedom. About what it means to age boldly, even as the body changes.

And that’s part of what sits underneath all of this for me.

Because the truth is, I don’t know how much time I have to grow into that version of myself. I’m living with stage 4 cancer, which has a way of sharpening certain questions.

It brings this idea of elders closer. Makes it less abstract.

Not something out there, but something I find myself reaching for, and sometimes recognising traces of within myself. Not because I’ve lived the longest, but because I’m paying attention. Because I’m in it.

So maybe the question isn’t just where are the elders.

It’s also how we listen when we find them, and how we begin, in our own way, to become them.

Not all at once, not perfectly, but in the small ways we show up and speak truthfully.

Heccerene has taught me two things. First, that there is freedom waiting on the other side of all the filtering we do. Second, that it is her firm belief there is no way on earth green soup should be consumed.

I’m starting to see that this freedom shouldn’t be reserved for later.

Although I have to admit, I still enjoy a bowl of delicious green soup.

Maybe unfiltering is something we can begin to embrace now, however we can, with the time we’re given.

Massive hugs to you from the sunny north coast xx

Thank you for being here again this week.

Things have improved since my last post. Not dramatically, but after the stormy day last week, there has been both joy and pain in my week, and that feels like progress.

This week I have been focusing on keeping life incredibly simple.

This way of living has felt lonely. The world outside feels fast, chaotic, and full of urgency. There is always pressure to do more, move faster, and push harder. People want to know what I have been up to, what plans I have, or what projects I am working towards.

Truthfully, I have no grand plan right now.

Croft life feels on hold while we regroup and catch our breath. 2026 has been a wild ride so far.

For now, I am simply living day by day, asking myself what feels manageable in the moment.

One obvious but rarely discussed truth has felt revolutionary lately: chores will always be there. The list will never be finished, and there will always be more to do. Accepting that has given me permission to only do what I have the capacity for that day.

Strangely, that feels like freedom. It also highlights just how much I used to try to cram into a single day, swept along by the urgency of others around me.

I have been digging deep to embrace life exactly as it is right now. Recognising where I am and respecting the limitations I am currently living with.

This week’s mantra has been ‘right now, it’s like this’.

It means accepting that I cannot achieve all the things I once did. If I am honest with myself, I was doing far too much anyway. Trying to keep up with the speed of society simply does not suit me. Or anyone else really…

These days my body feels weary. My mind feels tired of drama and noise, much of which we often create ourselves.

For months now I have been writing about slowing down.

And I have been doing that.

But lately the message I keep hearing is very clear.

Even slower.

So I am listening.

There is a whisper of knowing within me that understands the way forward. It reminds me I can choose calm over chaos, and that peace is always something I can return to.

This week it called me to stand barefoot on the earth, to feel the cold grass beneath my feet. I did question this, since it is March on the north coast of Scotland, but the voice was clear.

And as always, drink my tea outside and listen to the roar of the waves.

But remembering takes practice. Daily.

It means protecting my attention. Consciously choosing what I want to do next. Noticing when I have drifted out of alignment and gently bringing myself back.

I lose that centre many times throughout the day.

So the practice continues.

Slower still.

After the waves of last week, maybe this week we can all practise only doing what we have the capacity for.

With much love from the croft xx

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s been a rocky start to the year and I’ve been working hard on regulating my nervous system. Not just pushing through, as I’ve done for most of my life, but slowing down. Prioritising pauses, nature and myself.

And it was working.

I had started to function again. To plan. To feel semi like a normal person.

Until today.

It’s been an exhausting week. My husband has been busy at work, which means the days fall to me. Child logistics, meals and bedtimes. By the end of the day my tank is empty and running on fumes.

It’s my off week from chemo. In theory that’s when life can expand a little. There should be space for things other than simply getting through the day.

And with the return of the sun these past few days, I’ve been feeling genuinely peaceful. Grounded. I’ve been meditating daily and spending time outside. For the first time in months, my nervous system felt steady.

But today reminded me how fragile that steadiness can be.

How you can be doing all the right things, and one small moment can send the whole system into alarm.

I tried all day to come back from the spiral. I observed the mind. I did mini reset meditations. I danced. I walked. I sat outside listening to the birds.

But today it wasn’t enough.

My whole system went into panic mode. Loud and persistent. I felt myself go completely offline, like the rational part of my brain had stepped aside.

It was as if the floodgates opened.

Every worry. Every fear. Everything I had been carefully holding at bay came rushing through all at once.

The pendulum of emotions can be brutal. And when you’re already holding on by a thread, the smallest thing can disrupt the entire system.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy.

I’m sharing it because I want to give an honest view of what life is like living with stage 4 cancer. Some days are hopeful and grounded. And some days the fear breaks through hard.

Today is one of those days.

So today, I’m not okay.

But I do know these waves pass.

I’m hoping this one is a quick one.

Sending big hugs to you.

With love from the croft xx

Hello dear readers,

I’m so glad you’re here. Truly. How are you? Have you found even a small moment to pause and connect with yourself recently?

As with all journeys, there are ups and downs. I find myself in one of the steeper stretches at the moment.

It’s been a rocky start to the year. Uncertainty. Loss. The kind of things that land heavily and all at once. It’s easy to get lost in times like that.

And I did.

Frequently.

But nature and small rituals keep bringing me back.

So far, 2026 has held what I’ve come to think of as “the great pause.” Beyond hospital appointments and kid logistics, there hasn’t been much visible productivity. Beneath the surface, though, something deeper has been unfolding.

Maybe I sound like a broken record, but the daily rituals steady me. Lighting candles. Feeding the birds. Drinking tea outside, even when it’s cold. I am beginning to recognise the gentle power of all this more and more.

This morning I was reminded of the Mary Oliver poem I shared a few weeks ago. Instead of sitting and worrying, I sang and danced my way across the beach. I’m post chemo again, so yes, the steroids may have helped with the energy, but what I felt in my heart was entirely my own.

Recently, my husband and the kids built me a bench at the bottom of the croft. It looks out over the beach and it is, without exaggeration, one of the most magical places I’ve ever sat with a mug of tea.

Last week, when the kids were away, we made hot chocolate and walked down there in the dark, a light spattering of rain falling around us. We sat listening to the sea engulf everything. No distractions. Just the sound of water and the steady presence of one another.

Living rurally invites you to think differently about time together. Entertainment looks simpler. Better, I think.

I often think about how life’s twists and turns lead us somewhere we could not have planned. As a teenager, the beach felt far away, a big expedition. Thirty minutes might as well have been another country.

We searched along the coasts of France, Spain and Portugal for home, but everywhere felt too built up, too busy.

Then one day, on a van trip north, it landed.

We love Scotland. We love the north coast. Why aren’t we there?

And so the search began.

This was before the NC500 brought more attention northwards. Back then people often asked why on earth we would move here. That question does not come so much now.

The narrative inside me has shifted too.

It no longer feels random. It feels like a calling.

The sky and sea offer a sense of spaciousness that is hard to find elsewhere.

The beach is normally deserted. The land teaches daily lessons in transience and flow. When you know a place intimately, you begin to see its subtle changes. The river never stops moving. The creatures continue casually living their small, vital lives.

Nothing stays the same.

Everything shifts.

This morning, with the steroids humming through me, I felt the wilder woman awaken. She wanted to dance around a bonfire, bang a drum, chant with other women under the open sky and howl at the moon.

It felt good to welcome her. She’s retreating now.

And later this afternoon, I may be curled in a ball, heavy with sorrow, unable to access any of this clarity. That is very possible.

I don’t get to decide.

But right now, there is openness and my heart is full.

And that is more than enough. I feel lucky to be able to pause and feel it.

Thank you for walking alongside me here. Your presence means more than you know.

I’m sending love for whatever life is placing in your hands today, whether it feels light, impossibly heavy, or somewhere in between. I hope you can find a small pocket of peace within it. Even the smallest stretch of spaciousness.

Big hugs from the croft,
xx