28May2025 Diary
I was born into a modest, warm and unusually quiet household in a little village near Norwich. There were four children: two older brothers, a sister and me, the youngest. Over the years I was called by many nicknames Ellie, El, Elsie but Mum always had a special one for me, Elo. Hed say it gently, as if the word itself were a soft summer breeze that wrapped around me. I loved it and begged everyone to use the name Mum gave me.
My parents were ordinary people, but its those ordinary folks who make the world feel beautiful. Mum worked as a shop assistant at the local convenience store, while Dad was a foreman on the building site. Their lives were simple, steady, a quiet partnership where loud words were rare, yet there was an abundance of solid, reliable, unspoken warmth.
Dad would come home smelling of diesel and fresh cut grass, his hands still greasy from the days work. He always carried a few bags: jars of pickles from neighbours who were short on cash, a sack of potatoes, and sometimes a large melon hed manage to lug home at the most inconvenient moment. He never walked past a request without stopping.
Mum ran the household finances. Her world was one of order, counting, and precision. She never spent unnecessarily, yet when it came to education, books, or extracurricular activities she gave without a second thought. She scrimped on herself and on Dad, but never on us.
Every Friday, as a ritual, she would sit in front of the old television, pull out a box of yarn and begin mending. Mum fixed all our clothes with the same patience she applied to us, her steady attention. She was gentle, calm, slightly plump, with thick dark hair always tied in a tight bun. I never heard Mum argue with Dad. They could talk for hours, quietly, as if a private world existed just for the two of them, understandable only to them.
Dads words to us were short and simple:
All right, chaps, everything okay?
He would pat each of us on the head in turn. With me he would lift me onto his shoulders and toss me up so briefly that I felt the world turn upsidedown, as if I were flying. Those were my favourite moments. I thought our family was perfectlike the ones in storybooks where everything is just right.
***
At school I was different: noisy, vivid, emotionally expressive. Poetry came easily, prose even more so. By the time I reached Year5 I knew I wanted the stage and dreamed of drama school. When I told Mum, she nearly spilled her tea. Dad laughed:
Whats the matter, Ellie? Give it a go.
So I followed my own pathstudying, performing at fairs, writing greetings and short sketches. One day I decided to write a tiny, utterly simple story about a girl searching for herself. I doubted whether anyone should read it; I penned it in secret, in the quiet hours between chores. It felt too personal, too not a book.
I finally showed it to one friend, Claire. After reading, she said:
I want to give a copy of your book to every woman who comes to my birthday
I thought shed misheard.
What book? Youre talking nonsense those are just drafts.
Claire tilted her head, smiled gently:
Ellie, youve given me your friendship for years, pouring your soul into it. This year I want to share your book with everyone. Its my way of thanking you. I can make it happen.
Her words threw me off balance. I spent two days arguing with myself that it was foolish, that it wasnt serious. Yet Claire had already found a designer, a printer, and pressed on.
Let it see the light. I know people will love it.
And indeed it did. The book took off instantlyhonest, alive, free of pretence. Readers saw themselves in it, recognized their own fears and hopes, heard truths many are scared to speak aloud. The book sold, and soon people ordered it as a gift.
Encouraged, I set out to write something deeper, about family, roots, about those who made me who I am. That decision opened a door I was wholly unprepared for.
***
I needed to speak with my parents, to learn about their past, to pin down dates and stories. I called Mum; she answered oddly, pausing.
Dad isnt here, she said. Hes away on business.
I was surprisedMum usually knew where Dad was. I called Dad; he answered cheerfully:
Hey, Ellie! Im at Grans, fixing the fence.
Why hadnt Mum simply told me? On the drive home I realised her pause held something else.
When I entered the house, Mum stood in the kitchen. Seeing me, she whispered:
Were no longer together that happens sometimes.
Dad and Mumthe people Id kept inside as an ideal. I felt breathless, my mind blank. My brothers and sister had known for ages but hadnt told me because I had just become a mother myself. We wanted to protect you, theyd said.
Protect from my own family? I drove to Dads, demanding answers. He stayed silent, eyes fixed on the floor. Mum also stayed quiet, until one day she finally broke:
Why did you think we lived happily, Ellie? You were small, you didnt see everything. We hadnt spoken for weeks. He cant love. He never could.
Mum, why say that?
He told me himself.
Something inside me shattered. I stopped answering Dads calls, stopped thinking about the book, stopped being myself.
***
When Claire suggested a retreat in the Lake District, I barely believed her:
Are you serious? Now? I cant and a list of excuses rolled off my tongue.
Later that evening, I told my husband about the conversation. He listened, smiled and said calmly:
Go. You need this.
I opened my mouth to argue, but he interrupted gently:
Ellie, go. Well manage.
So I went. The retreat was led by an extraordinary woman, Sage Hartley. She asked to be called exactly that; her spiritual teacher had given her the name after years of practice in a monastery. Sage meant wisdom, Hartley was her family nametogether, wise heart. She radiated a calm that felt like shed already solved her own nature.
She was brightnot naïve, but truly clear. She never said no to anything, not out of submission but out of acceptance. We trekked to an old stone chapel locals called the Rat Chapel because hundreds of sacred ratssymbols of ancestorsdwelt there, fed and revered. The girls were horrified, but Sage knelt, fed the rats from her palm, whispering:
Life doesnt always appear as we expect, but life is life, everywhere.
She delighted in sunshine, a single leaf, a blade of grass, the shade of a pine, the uneven line of clouds She lived here and now not as a slogan but as breath. Her simple phrases shifted something inside with each word.
***
That evening we returned from meditation. The sky was a heavy, humid dusk, as if the sun had melted into the horizon. Sage suggested we sit in silence on the roof of the lodge. Everyone else retired to their rooms; I stayed. Watching the sunset, a mix of melancholy and loneliness settled over me.
Sage sat beside me, looking out calmly. She asked nothing. She simply was there, letting me feel her presence. When I exhaled a laboured breath, she turned to me.
Theres tension in your quiet, Ellie, she said. You sit still, but inside yous a storm.
I smiled wryly:
Im always like this. My mind never stops.
No, she replied softly. Today youre not thinking. Youre hiding.
She looked at me without pressure and added:
Sometimes people stay silent not because they dont want to speak, but because theyre scared to hear their own truth.
Her words cut deep. I turned away, not wanting her to see my trembling lips. Yet she continued, as if reading my thoughts:
When a woman hides the truth, she first hides it from herself. The heart, however, always knows. Right now yours is restless, like a chick searching for a place to hide.
Only then did she ask, gently:
Where does that chick come from, Ellie? Where does this anxiety spring?
A pause. She gazed straight into my heart, not my eyes. In that moment I sensed the true Sageshe didnt ask directly; she simply held space, guiding me toward honesty.
I poured everything out, every secret, every ache. She listened long, then said:
You love your parents deeply and want to save them from parting. But children dont rescue parents. Children love, and then they let go. Youve taken on a burden that isnt yours. You cant keep them together, and you shouldnt try.
Tears fell. She stroked my hand and whispered:
You are a daughter, not a judge, not a mediator, not a therapist. Remember that. Return to that place, and life will feel lighter.
For the first time in weeks I truly exhaled.
***
Back home, the first thing I did was call Dad.
Dad, I said, Im sorry. I love you. Hear me? I love you.
Silence, then his voice cracked:
Ive been waiting Ellie waiting for your call.
That evening I visited Mum. We sat at the kitchen table, and she became, for a moment, the bright, slightly embarrassed, slightly funny woman she once was. We talked until midnight. I finally saw her not just as Mum but as a woman with her own destiny, pain, choices, freedom. It brought me together.
A few days later I opened my laptop and began a new manuscript. Not about an ideal family, but about a living one. About love in its many shapes, about the winding path, about memory, acceptance, and the fact that light isnt found where everything is perfect, but where everything is honest.
I know now Ill write it not as a girl, but as a mana man who has found his own world inside.
Lesson: The peace we seek is not created by keeping others together, but by accepting our own role, letting go of impossible duties, and living truthfully.