Some life events hit you like a giant wave, pulling you under before you realise you’re drowning. My dad’s sudden admission to A&E with sepsis was one of those moments.

It was terrifying. One day everything was normal, and the next I was sitting beside his hospital bed, clinging to hope and medical updates. He was so unwell, and the thought of losing him was unbearable. When he was stable enough, he came to convalesce at Wellswill. I rearranged my life in a heartbeat so I could care for him. Nothing else mattered.

And somewhere in the middle of the emergency calls, hospital visits, sleepless nights and endless cups of tea, I forgot about myself.

Self-care? It slipped away entirely. I didn’t even notice at first. I was in survival mode — doing what needed to be done, putting one foot in front of the other. My emotions were neatly packed away because there just wasn’t time or space for them.

However, I credit one thing with keeping me just about sane. Even in the middle of the chaos, I kept running my support groups.

Just talking, listening and holding space, just like I do every other day. And you know what? Those conversations were my lifeline. In showing up for others, I remembered a part of myself that felt steady and strong. Those honest chats were grounding, even healing. There was no pretending, no performance — just mutual care and humanity. And that was everything to me.

And in the midst of it all, my dad—ever the character—somehow managed to charm his way into the picture too. During his recovery, holed up in his room at Wellswill, he made a few cheeky appearances at the Menopause Café. Not content with staying in bed, he’d shuffle out to the living room, perch himself among the ladies, and proceed to hold court as if he were the guest of honour. Still playing the charmer, still enjoying his audience. The women adored him — and truthfully, so did I in that moment. It was a slice of lightness, and I’ll always treasure it.

Eventually, I had to gently remind myself that I have a toolkit. I’ve spent years building it — for others, yes, but also for me. And little by little, I returned to it. A quiet moment with a cuppa. Ten minutes with a journal. A walk in the fresh air. I gave myself permission to soften, to rest and to feel the whole gamut of my feelings.

And now, I want to say thank you.

To everyone who reached out, checked in, sent love, held space, or simply let me be — I’m so deeply grateful. Your kindness made more difference than you know. You reminded me that even the caregivers need care. Even the strong ones need support.

Wellswill has always been a place of healing, but during those weeks, it became something even more sacred. A place of family, of laughter, love, and quiet resilience.

And life, gently and gratefully, is flowing again.

With heartfelt gratitude,

Marisa x