Grief, love, trauma, addiction, survival—and the stories we write when everything falls apart.
About
Sometimes, grief arrives like a whisper.
Other times, it blows the door clean off its hinges.
I’ve lost enough doors to last a lifetime.
So I started writing.
About all of them.
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You’ll find stories here of love that leaves bruises,
the slow ache of surviving people you thought you couldn’t live without,
and the strange ways they sometimes still show up —
to prove that love never really dies.
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This blog is a space for the messy, raw edges of life:
grief, addiction, heartbreak, trauma,
and the hard-won hope that comes from surviving it all.
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It’s for those of us who feel suspended between worlds,
tethered to love that no longer walks beside us.
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I’m a single mother, neurodivergent woman, and writer living in a slightly unhinged cottage in the British countrysidewith an array of furry friends, and an alarming number of teabags.
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By day, I help women make sense of their pain.
By night, I write about mine.
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So pull up a chair, pour yourself a cup of tea, and know you’re not alone here.
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I write under a pseudonym because some stories demand courage —
and because this version of me doesn’t flinch when the story starts to hurt.
Welcome.
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— N.J. Wilde
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