For years I have been a keeper of women’s stories. In many ways it was my destiny: growing up in a household of five sisters, my mumma and later Granny or ‘Great’, as she was known, making seven.
That tells you something about how we innately knew the order of things - Great! Crone, Empress, the Greatest of them all. And she really was Great because she was the kindest, wisest most loving woman. I remember stroking her ageing hand; the skin was so soft and fine. As her eyesight began to fail her she’d run her hand over the fabric of my dress or jumper, admiring its fine quality and how it felt to the touch.
Great gave me her love of beautiful things. Everything about her little Granny flat was beautiful and unique, quirky and curious. It was like walking into a treasure trove. Great knew exactly what she liked and would hone straight in on it. Whilst my mumma fumbled around going from shop to shop not knowing what she wanted.
If Great wanted something, she had it - no matter the price. She wasn’t a rich woman at all but she would save her Broadmoor earnings, where she worked all her life, often having to hide them from her lovely but hapless husband (who was partial to a drink and a gamble). Great was a grafter.
My older sisters adored me, dressing me up in second hand Biba and taking me swimming at the local lido. I think I might have been there to help get attention from the boys. Apparently my eyes where so big that they always drew people to me (or so the family legend goes).
To me my older sisters were Goddesses and we adored and worshipped each other in equal measures.
And so these were my foundations into the world of women, living Goddesses, Queens and Empresses. This was my world and it was perfect. Until I was around the age of 12 (maybe younger - the mind suppresses that which it can’t handle), when one of my Goddess sisters married a wrong-un who destroyed our family dynamic with his subtle abuse and grooming of our mother.
This resulted in years of self abuse, a year of bulimia; the ultimate rejection of self and the only way I knew how to rid myself of the dirty, shameful feeling. Of course it only led to further shame and making myself so small that I wouldn’t attract unwanted attention.
But this isn’t just my story; this is the story of many women. Women who experience childhood abuse who go on to suffer with bulimia. Many have intrusive thoughts, flashbacks and nightmares, which can be symptoms of PTSD. Abuse can also result in emotional numbing, social isolation and panic attacks.
A huge 68% of child abuse (girls and boys) happens within the family by a known relative.
Through my healing of this familial abuse I believe a portal opened up which led me on this journey to support women through their losses and difficult life situations; to sit with them in their darkest places, without the need to fix, but as a witness.
Most people don’t need or want opinions; they want to be held energetically so they can unravel and put themselves back together.
I am so grateful for the path it opened up; working with women is my life’s passion, it is my fuel, my purpose and gives me life.
Thank you to all the women I have sat with and the women that sit with me now. Thank you for making me a better person, for allowing me to fall apart and for the laughing through tears.
You know who you are, I love you ❤️
What A Wise, Moving and Beautiful Account, Emma, Thank You for writing it XX