There is something I’ve learned about support over the past year. Apparently, it’s always available. You just have to ask.
Lovely idea, isn’t it? Almost magical. Like having a little emergency button that summons help whenever life decides to set itself on fire.
Except, in our experience, the button wasn’t particularly reliable.
Last autumn, our lives were turned upside down. Ethan was seriously ill, spending months in hospital, and we were trying to navigate a situation that no parent should ever have to experience. We were frightened, exhausted and emotionally drained. We were also still parents to Ethan’s twin sister Greta, and their older sister Phoebe, who, rather inconveniently, continued to require food, clean clothes, school preparation and the occasional reminder that her parents hadn’t completely disappeared.
Life, apparently, doesn’t offer compassionate leave when your child is in hospital.
There were hospital journeys, appointments, school runs, dinners, washing and all the ordinary things that suddenly felt like climbing Mount Everest in flip-flops. Ian and I were running on fumes. Actually, fumes would have been generous. We were somewhere around the level of an abandoned car on the hard shoulder, hazard lights flashing, hoping somebody might notice.
We were told that help was always there. We just had to ask.
And we did ask.
During those first months after Ethan finally came home, when we were still trying to find our feet, I needed help. I reached out, and I was told to take it easy.
Take it easy.
I beg your pardon? Take it easy while doing what exactly? Perhaps I was supposed to put the children on pause, leave the washing to develop its own ecosystem and inform Phoebe that dinner had been cancelled indefinitely because Mummy had been advised to relax.
I would have loved to take it easy. Truly. It sounded like a wonderful holiday destination.
But life was still happening, and we were expected to keep up.
This is where I’ve come to understand the difference between theoretical support and practical support.
Theoretical support is lovely. It comes wrapped in reassuring words and good intentions. We’re always here. Just ask if you need anything.
Practical support is rather less glamorous.
It’s someone bringing dinner without needing a PowerPoint presentation explaining why you’re too exhausted to cook. It’s offering to collect your child from school. It’s noticing that someone is struggling and taking one small thing off their plate.
We weren’t asking anyone to move mountains. We weren’t expecting a live in housekeeper, a personal chef and a chauffeur on standby. Although, frankly, I wouldn’t have complained.
We needed a little consideration. A little initiative. A reminder that we were human beings, not an unlimited subscription service for everyone else’s expectations.
Instead, there were constant demands at a time when Ian and I had practically nothing left to give. And I remember apologising. Apologising for not being available, for struggling, for not meeting expectations.
Looking back, that part makes me particularly sad. We were already carrying an enormous amount, yet somehow I still felt the need to apologise for not picking up another bag.
Because trauma isn’t only about the frightening event itself. It’s also about everything surrounding it. The exhaustion, the loneliness, the grief, the practical strain and the realisation that some of the people you thought would stand beside you weren’t necessarily going to show up in the way you needed.
And sometimes it’s the absence of support that stays with you long after the immediate crisis has passed.
I’m writing about this now because I’m going through a particularly difficult spell with my trauma. Autumn has arrived, the weather has turned, and memories have become rather louder than I’d like. The cold, the darkness and that familiar autumnal feeling take me back to autumn 2025.
I know it’s 2026. I know where I am. Unfortunately, the brain doesn’t always check the calendar before deciding to replay an old episode. Apparently, it has its own streaming service, and the cancellation button is nowhere to be found.
I know I’m not back there. But I still live with what happened, and some days are harder than others.
One thing I do know, though, is that if someone close to me ever finds themselves in a similar situation, I want to be there for them. Properly there.
I won’t give them a lecture about being strong. I won’t tell them everything happens for a reason. And I certainly won’t tell someone who is drowning that they should try swimming.
I’ll bring dinner. I’ll offer to help with the children. I’ll do the shopping, make a cup of tea or simply sit with them if that’s what they need.
I don’t need to know exactly what to say. I don’t need to fix their lives. Sometimes I just need to make sure they don’t have to think about what’s for dinner that evening.
Because I’ve learned something from being on the other side of it.
When someone’s world is falling apart, they don’t necessarily need another person telling them how strong they are. They’re probably already doing more than anyone should reasonably expect of them.
Sometimes they just need someone to turn up.
And please, for the love of everything, don’t make them organise their own rescue operation while they’re already drowning.
Support isn’t just something you promise. It’s something you do. And sometimes the most meaningful act of kindness is remarkably ordinary: showing up, bringing dinner and giving someone one less thing to worry about.
