Three Years Later
It’s only been a couple of weeks since I started this blog, but I’ve had a lot of messages and thoughts bubbling up since then. Writing the first post felt like letting go of something I’d been carrying for years — and this one’s about what happened after. Not just how life changed, but how we did. It’s been three years of growing, breaking, rebuilding, and finding small bits of peace in between.
Looking back, the real turning point was realising I couldn’t keep living the way I was. I was trying to find myself among the mess — cutting out noise, facing changes I’d avoided for too long. The hardest part was seeing my kids carry more than they should have. They were supporting me when I should’ve been supporting them, and that was the moment I knew something had to give.
Finding myself again didn’t come from one big decision. It came from hundreds of small, stubborn ones — choosing kindness even when people called it weakness, learning that the ending’s already written and it’s the journey that really counts. For the first time, I started to accept who I was and make decisions I could live with.
Underneath it all, I realised how much low self-esteem had shaped my life. For years I felt like the outsider, and rebuilding confidence has felt like walking up a mountain in a mudslide — slow, messy, but still moving. Some days I crumble. Reaching out doesn’t always land the way I hope, but I wait it out. Amy listens. She doesn’t always have the words, but she stays — and that’s enough.
We’ve been together two and a half years now. I haven’t always made it easy. My insecurities have made me defensive, but we’ve learned to talk, to be open. Between us and our four kids, we’ve built something that actually works. She reminds me I’m enough — even when I forget.
The kids have grown in ways that make me proud every day. Supporting their mum when she came out was huge for them and for me. I wanted them to see that love doesn’t stop when life changes shape. My son’s quieter now but grounded. My daughter’s wild, creative, and kind. We still miss the people we’ve lost, but the peace between us feels solid. We laugh more. We check in when someone’s quiet. It feels like home again.
One of those “we’ve-come-a-long-way” moments was in Portugal last summer — me, Amy, the kids, sun, sea, laughter, and one near-death experience on a water slide. It was the first time in years I felt like I had a family again.
These days, life is calmer — or at least a more organised kind of chaos. I finish work earlier, spend more time at home, and try to grab little moments for myself. I even moved into the lounge so my son could have his own room. It stopped the bedtime arguments but left the house looking like a storage unit for a month. At one point we had to crawl under a dining-table fortress just to get out the door.
We all have our own little environments of chaos. My daughter leaves a trail of paint, glue, and possibly haunted Blu-tack wherever she goes. My son manages to build a mountain of snack wrappers around his PlayStation without ever moving. They both swear it’s not them — maybe we really do have a ghost. When we’re not buried under snack tubs or arguing over the remote, me and Amy sneak off for a walk or a ghost hunt. Those small escapes keep us sane.
If my past self could see this life, he’d be shocked. He didn’t think there’d even be a future. I still have dark days, but I’m calmer, steadier, and optimistic. “Better” now just means being able to relax, to laugh, to be my goofy self with the people I love.
What matters most to me these days is honesty — being open about what I think and feel, even if it’s too much sometimes. I love that my kids feel comfortable doing the same, and it gives me a deep sense of pride knowing I’ve had a positive impact on Amy’s life too.
The little moments remind me what I was fighting for — the kids showing me their Minecraft builds, new football squads, or the latest game they’ve invented with their teddies. That’s the good stuff. That’s home.
I’m still learning to believe I’m enough. I want to keep being open, reliable, and emotionally aware, but I’m working on how I see myself — rebuilding my drive and carving out time for the things that make me feel like me again.
If I could tell anyone going through the same thing one truth, it’d be this: when you’re going through hell, keep going. You can’t stay stuck there forever. And when all else fails — just smile and wave. Don’t let the people who hurt you think they’ve won. Be open, listen to the ones who care, and believe the people who tell you they’re proud. Happiness starts when you decide to let it in.
What’s next? More fun. More family. More memories. I want to be steady enough to help the kids through whatever bumps come next, to show them more of the world — even if it’s just the messy, wonderful corners of the UK. I don’t have it all figured out, but maybe that’s the point. We’re here, we’re laughing, and we’re learning how to be okay — together.
