Some days, it feels impossible.
I’m all too aware of how my actions — my struggles — have affected Archie.
Now don’t get me wrong, he has a good life.
He’s surrounded by people who love him, support him, and make sure he’s safe and happy.
But that doesn’t erase the truth:
Archie has had to handle more than any 8-year-old should.
He’s seen more than most.
He’s felt the weight of things kids shouldn’t have to carry.
And yet…
He meets every day with this quiet strength that amazes me.
He understands when I can’t go out.
He knows some days are harder than others.
And he never, ever blames me.
Every single day:
- He tells me I’m the best mum in the world — even when I feel like I’m not.
- He tells me off for apologising — even when I believe I should.
- He tells me how much he loves me — even when I feel like he deserves better.
He doesn’t see my broken parts.
He just sees me.
His mum.
And for him, that’s enough.
Archie isn’t perfect. He’s 8 — and cheeky as anything.
He repeats phrases like:
“I haven’t got the mental capacity for this today.”
Or tells people:
“My social battery is flat.”
Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cringe.
But honestly? It shows how much he’s absorbing.
How tuned in he is to emotional language, to awareness, to understanding himself and others.
Maybe he knows more than a kid “should.”
But he also knows he’s loved.
He knows we’re honest in our house.
He knows we talk.
And that matters too.
I’ve spent so long worrying that struggling with my mental health makes me a bad mum.
But I’ll never forget something someone once said to me:
“Archie will understand growing up with a mum who’s sad. He can live with that.
But growing up with no mum at all — that would ruin him.”
That stuck with me.
Because it’s not about being perfect.
It’s about being here.
Showing up — even when it’s hard.
Loving loudly. Trying. Talking. Staying.
That’s what I’m doing.
That’s what Archie sees.
And I hope one day, that’s what he’ll remember.
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