 Roots and Undercurrents: A Childhood Remembered |
I was born in Exeter, Devon, in 1965 — a surprise addition to a family that thought it might have been complete. My parents were slightly older by the standards of the time, and while they weren’t quite sure they wanted a second child, I arrived anyway — mainly, I was told, to keep my five-year-old sister company. That fact never bothered me growing up. In fact, I used to think it was rather nice to know I had a built-in role right from the start: companion, playmate, the “bonus baby.”
My earliest memories are woven with the scent of salty sea air and the sound of gulls overhead — holidays in Cornwall were a fixture of my childhood. We went every year, usually with extended family in tow. Those weeks were filled with freedom, laughter, and warmth, especially from my mum. She was soft and attentive, the kind of mother who made you feel safe just by being nearby.
But like many stories, mine isn’t all sunny beaches and ice cream cones.
At home, there was a very different energy — one shaped largely by my dad. He ruled our household with an iron will and an unpredictable temper. We were told to be quiet when he was around, and it wasn’t just suggested — it was a rule, one that hovered in the air like a silent warning. My mum, despite her kindness, seemed afraid of him, which only reinforced our own fear. Looking back, it’s heartbreaking to see how much she tiptoed through her days, always trying not to rock the boat.
As a child, I didn’t have the language for what was happening. I only knew that my world had two speeds: the light, easy joy of time with Mum or family… and the tense, watchful quiet that fell when Dad was nearby.
And yet, I still remember my childhood as mostly happy — that’s the strange, resilient thing about children. We hold on to the good. We find joy in small things. But that constant undercurrent of fear, the habit of shrinking to stay safe, of second-guessing emotions — it all stayed with me longer than I realised. And in ways I couldn’t have predicted, it came back to bite me on the bum later in life.
But that’s another part of the story — one I’m still unfolding as I step into this chapter I call my Second Bloom.
We all carry pieces of the past with us, but I believe it’s never too late to choose how we let those pieces shape us. Sometimes we bloom not in spite of our roots, but because of them.
Second Bloom 