Sat down with a coffee day, and I felt it — that deep, tired ache in your chest when you’ve done everything right and still feel like it’s not enough.
So today, I want to speak about a different path yet link
I rarely speak of the situation with social services here,
. Nor about court or paperwork and the rest,
But I want to speak about a theme that runs throughout here,
I want to speak about the work you can’t measure in numbers.
The work no report I realize will ever truly reflect.
Because I didn’t start healing the day they handed me a referral.
I started long before the therapy officially began.
I picked up books. I read articles. I watched videos.
I used here to vent, I took time,
I wanted to understand myself , to grow, not because anyone told me to, but because I knew I needed to.
I went to private therapy.
I took part in couples therapy.
I studied trauma, relationships, communication, regulation.
My fav book, you are not broken, By Dr Sarah Woodhouse, a book on finding the root cause,
And I didn’t just read — I practised.
I noticed my behaviours. My patterns. My triggers.
And I began changing the only thing I had control over: myself.
Finding my church in August 2023 was a turning point.
Something softened in me. Something opened.
Faith helped carry what therapy couldn’t always hold.
In January 2024, I was finally assessed for CAT therapy.
It took until May for sessions to begin
As time went on delays, cancellations, missed weeks that weren’t my doing.
But I kept showing up.
Fourteen sessions in, my therapist went on leave.
There was no closure, no plan for what came next.
Just more stress. More heartbreak.
Our daughter returned to care.
Other things happened I won’t share here.
But this time… I didn’t break.
I used what I’d learned.
I held my boundaries.
I didn’t lash out. I didn’t spiral. I didn’t collapse into old ways.
Was it hard?
Yes.
But I did it.
When I was reassessed by the mental health team just recently, the woman looked at me and said:
“The proof is in the pudding. If this was a mask, it would’ve fallen off long ago. But it hasn’t. It’s real. You’ve done so much.”
And so I was discharged.
Because I was OK.
I’d done the work.
But apparently… that’s not enough.
Not for them.
They want numbers.
33 sessions — a magic number, apparently.
Not the healing I’ve lived out. Not the growth I’ve shown. Not the life I’m building.
Just a number.
And until that number is hit, they’re not interested.
Not in reunification. Not in progress. Not in truth.
I don’t understand it.
But I’m not going to let it undo me.
Because healing isn’t about ticking boxes.
It’s about who you become in the quiet moments.
It’s about how you handle the storm — not just whether you’ve read the manual.
And I know — God sees that.
He sees the change in me.
He sees the hours no one else counted.
He walked with me through it.
And He’s still walking with me now.
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