The Shape of Shelter

Most love stories start with a man.

Mine starts with a house called Pebblestone, a Rottweiler with boundary issues, and two small boys who think I’m indestructible.

It starts with me. A woman who has weathered enough storms to know better than to romanticise them, standing in the wreckage of a life that didn’t go to plan.

It starts with me deciding, quietly, not to lie down in it.

There are no fairytales here.

Only saltwater and petrol fumes.

A kitchen bench stacked with pancakes, lego and utility bills.

Art, motorcycles, campervans… Because motion kept me upright when nothing else could.

I loved men who hurt me.

Men who burned me.

One who drowned in his own grief.

But this is not their story.

This is the story of the woman who stayed standing.

Of a mother who built a life out of rubble and did it again, and again, and again.

Of an artist who painted her way back after the fantasy finally died.

Of someone who held the line for two small boys and a house that should have fallen down, but didn’t.

This is not a story about being saved.

It’s a story about saving yourself.

Barefoot in the surf.

Ink-stained hands.

Heart still beating, stubbornly, against all logic.

I didn’t get a soft life.

But I kept a softer heart.

And if you’re reading this, maybe you did too...