I almost didn’t go back. Not because my doctor had done anything wrong. Quite the opposite, really. She had been kind, patient and encouraging the last time I sat in her office. She listened while I admitted, probably for the first time in my life, that perhaps I couldn’t keep carrying everything on my own. She organised a Mental Health Care Plan, wrote referrals, and reminded me that asking for help wasn’t something to be ashamed of. I walked out of that appointment believing I was finally going to start dealing with parts of my life that I had spent decades quietly packing away. I genuinely wanted things to be different, and I left feeling hopeful that maybe this was the beginning of a new chapter.
Then life happened. Money was tight, I didn’t have reliable access to a car, organising appointments around a toddler felt almost impossible, and every day seemed to present a new problem that needed my attention first. None of those things felt like excuses at the time. They were simply the reality I was living. Before I knew it, weeks had turned into months, the referrals had expired, and the determination I had walked out of that doctor’s office with had slowly been replaced by something much heavier. Every now and then I would think about booking another appointment, only to convince myself that too much time had passed. I had asked for help, promised myself I would follow through, and somehow still hadn’t managed to do it. The longer I left it, the harder it became to imagine going back.
The funny thing about shame is that it has a remarkable ability to rewrite history. It quietly edits out every obstacle, every genuine difficulty and every reason something became harder than you expected. It doesn’t mention the lack of money, the transport issues, the constant juggle of raising a toddler or the fact that simply getting through each day sometimes felt like enough. It simply leaves behind one cruel sentence: You failed. I wasn’t avoiding my GP because she had judged me. I was avoiding her because I had already judged myself, and I was convinced she would see me the same way.
“I wasn’t avoiding my GP because she judged me.
I was avoiding her because I had already judged myself.”
The Story Shame Told Me
By the time I finally considered making another appointment, it wasn’t the practical barriers holding me back anymore. Those had slowly been replaced by something much heavier. Shame had settled in, and it had become incredibly convincing. It told me my doctor would be disappointed in me. It told me she would wonder why she had bothered putting together a mental health plan if I wasn’t going to use it. It whispered that I had wasted her time, that she would think I wasn’t serious, and that after all those months, walking back into her office would only prove that I couldn’t even do the things I said I wanted to do.
The strange thing is that none of those thoughts came from my doctor. She had never judged me. She had never made me feel small. Every one of those fears came from me. I had already decided I was a failure before I ever picked up the phone. The more I replayed that story in my head, the more believable it became. I wasn’t afraid of hearing her disappointment. I was afraid of having my own disappointment reflected back at me. Shame has a way of doing that. It convinces us that the stories we tell ourselves must also be the stories everyone else believes.
I don’t think I’m alone in that. I think there are countless people avoiding appointments, phone calls, emails and conversations because they’re carrying the same invisible burden. Maybe it’s a doctor, a psychologist, a dentist or a physiotherapist. Maybe it’s someone who once offered to help, and now it feels too embarrassing to admit that life got in the way. We tell ourselves we’ll go back once we’ve sorted ourselves out, once we’ve made some progress, once we can prove we were worth helping in the first place. The trouble is, the longer we wait, the heavier that shame becomes, until the very people who want to help us become the people we’re most afraid to face.
The Appointment I Almost Cancelled
The only reason I found myself walking back into my GP’s office at all was because I had started working with a support worker again. Through the playgroup Ruby and I attend, I have access to support that I am incredibly grateful for, and together we started talking about something I had spent a long time avoiding. We talked about filling my cup instead of constantly pouring into everyone else’s. We talked about the fact that I was feeling overwhelmed most of the time, that I wasn’t coping as well as I wanted to be, and that perhaps it was time to stop trying to manage everything alone. If I hadn’t started working with her again, I honestly don’t think I would have booked the appointment. I would have kept pushing through because that’s what I’ve always done.
Even after the appointment was booked, I spent the morning spiralling. Life admin has a remarkable ability to make everything feel impossible when you’re already emotionally exhausted. I was thinking about all the things I needed to remember, the medications I needed sorted, the guilt I was carrying, and the conversation I thought I was about to have. I kept imagining having to explain why I hadn’t followed through the first time, and every version of that conversation ended with me feeling embarrassed. Thankfully, my support worker came with me and kept Ruby occupied for most of the appointment, which meant that for once I was actually able to focus on talking instead of trying to manage a toddler and a conversation at the same time.
Walking into that room, I genuinely believed I was walking back to someone I had let down. I expected disappointment. I expected that look people sometimes give when they think, “Well, we tried.” I expected to feel judged for wasting an opportunity that so many people would have taken. Instead, I was greeted by the same kindness I had received the year before. The person who had spent months judging me the harshest hadn’t been my doctor at all. It had been me.
“Sometimes the greatest act of courage isn’t moving forward.
It’s simply going back.”
Kindness I Never Expected
My GP didn’t sigh when I explained what had happened. She didn’t ask why I hadn’t followed through or make me feel guilty for letting so much time pass. There wasn’t a hint of frustration in her voice or disappointment on her face. Instead, she listened. Really listened. She understood that life had become overwhelming and that sometimes good intentions aren’t enough when you’re trying to juggle finances, transport, a toddler and everything else that quietly piles onto your shoulders. The conversation I had spent months dreading turned out to be one of the gentlest conversations I’d had in a long time.
What surprised me even more was that she didn’t focus on what I hadn’t done. She focused on what I had. She praised the work I’d been doing to manage my diabetes and reminded me how far I had come. When I first started seeing her, my HbA1c had been 10.7. At my most recent check, it had dropped to 6.2. She could see the effort I had been putting in, even if I had been too busy criticising myself to notice it. She told me she knew I was trying. Those four words landed harder than I expected because they challenged the story I had been telling myself for months. I had convinced myself that all anyone would see was my failure. Instead, she saw someone who was doing the best she could with the season of life she was living.
Together we created a new Mental Health Care Plan, but this one felt different. It wasn’t just about referrals or appointments. It was also about making room for me. She encouraged me to choose two small weekly activities that were simply for my own wellbeing. One was strength training, something especially beneficial for a middle-aged woman living with diabetes. The other was reconnecting with a hobby I had abandoned years ago. I’d love to say I chose painting, but anyone who has spent time around an energetic toddler knows that paint, tiny hands and uninterrupted concentration rarely belong in the same sentence. Instead, I chose to start playing the piano again. It was something I could realistically do while Ruby wandered in and out, pressed a few keys herself or simply played nearby. For the first time in a long time, taking care of myself didn’t feel like something I had to squeeze in around motherhood. It felt like something that could quietly exist alongside it.
Learning to Grow With My Life
One of the things I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is how much my life has changed. There was a time when it was just me. I lived quietly, kept to myself and dealt with whatever came my way without asking anyone else to step in. It wasn’t always healthy, but it was familiar. If life became difficult, I found a way to push through because there wasn’t really another option. Somewhere along the way, I started believing that coping on my own was a strength. Looking back now, I wonder if it was simply the only way I knew how to survive.
Now my life is so much bigger than it used to be. I’m raising a beautiful little girl who is growing into a wonderful, curious, determined toddler with very big emotions. She needs me in ways that nobody has ever needed me before. She needs patience when she’s frustrated, calm when she’s overwhelmed and reassurance when the world feels too big. Most days she is climbing on me, following me into the bathroom, asking for my attention, protesting when I say no, or needing comfort after something hasn’t gone her way. I adore being her mum, but I would be lying if I said it wasn’t relentless at times. There are days when I feel overstimulated from the moment I wake up until the moment I finally fall into bed, and on those days I don’t always respond the way I wish I did.
When Ruby is having one of her big emotional moments, I sometimes find myself wishing it would simply stop. Not because I don’t want to help her, but because in those moments it feels as though we’re both drowning in emotions neither of us quite knows how to manage. I lose my patience more quickly than I’d like. Sometimes I raise my voice, and almost immediately I’m flooded with guilt because that’s not the kind of mum I want to be. I believe in firm boundaries, but I also want my daughter to remember me as someone who helped her feel safe through her hardest moments. The truth is, I realised I couldn’t keep relying on the same coping strategies that had carried me through life before becoming a parent. My life has grown, my responsibilities have grown, and if I want to keep growing alongside them, then I have to be willing to grow too.
Doing It For Her… And For Me
For a long time, I thought asking for help was something other people did. I was the person who figured things out, adapted, survived and kept going. If life became difficult, I lowered my head and pushed a little harder. That approach got me through many seasons of my life, and for a while I honestly believed that needing support somehow meant I hadn’t tried hard enough. It has taken me a long time to realise that there comes a point where surviving isn’t the same thing as living well. Sometimes the strongest thing we can do is admit that the way we’ve always coped is no longer enough for the life we’re living now.
I want to be a better mum, and I don’t mean perfect. I don’t expect to get everything right. I know there will still be days where I’m tired, overwhelmed and counting down the minutes until bedtime. There will still be moments where I lose my patience and wish I had handled something differently. This isn’t about becoming a flawless parent. It’s about giving myself more tools so that those moments happen less often. It’s about learning to regulate my own emotions so I can help Ruby regulate hers. It’s about recognising that if I want her to grow into someone who believes it’s okay to ask for help, then she needs to see me believing that too.
One day, when Ruby is old enough to understand this part of our story, I hope she never looks back and sees a mother who struggled in silence because she thought that made her strong. I hope she sees someone who was willing to do the uncomfortable things because she loved her daughter enough to keep growing. I hope she knows that asking for help doesn’t make you weak, it doesn’t make you bad at life, and it certainly doesn’t make you a failure. I hope she knows it’s okay to have a village, it’s okay to let good people into your life, and it’s okay to believe that not everyone who offers kindness has an ulterior motive. Most of all, I hope she knows that no matter how hard it felt for me to take those first steps, she was always worth the effort.
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