Mama Unmasked

Day 1 — This Is Me, and This Is Why I’m Here

I’ve been thinking about starting this for a long time and I’m finally doing it.

This isn’t something I have fully figured out, but I know I need to start somewhere.

I’m nervous writing this, but I also know I need to.

I’m a 29-year-old (nearly 30) wife and mama to three girls. I live in a council house, I have two bunnies, and my life probably looks fairly ordinary from the outside — but it hasn’t felt ordinary on the inside for a very long time.

I’m autistic (high-functioning) and I have ADHD. I didn’t get those answers easily or early, and a lot of my life has been shaped by being misunderstood — by others and by myself. I can’t spell for shit and punctuation isn’t my strong point, so I’ll be using tools to help me write. I’m saying that upfront because this blog isn’t about perfection — it’s about honesty.

This is my story. All of it.

I’m ripping the band-aid off.

Growing up and losing myself early

From the age of 13, I was put on antidepressants and hormonal contraception to control my periods. Those hormones changed my brain in ways I didn’t understand at the time. Alongside trauma in my life, I developed severe anxiety and depression and eventually became housebound.

A traumatic event happened while I was in school, and as I was going into Year 10 my mum took me out of education because I simply couldn’t cope anymore. My world became very small, very quickly.

At 17, I became pregnant to my boyfriend. We had already been together four years and we’re still together now — before anyone makes assumptions, I wasn’t “one of those girls.” I had left my contraceptive implant in a year longer than it should have been, and I believe that’s how I fell pregnant. The hormonal crash from having it removed messed with my head badly.

Motherhood saved me… at first

My first daughter was born in 2014. Motherhood saved me. I wasn’t housebound anymore. I became independent again. My partner worked and I stayed at home — the plan was until she was three.

I had a non-hormonal coil fitted and still somehow fell pregnant again. My second daughter was born in 2016, and six days after she was born she went blue in my arms mid-feed. Completely random. Completely traumatic. The worst thing I had ever seen in my life.

She later suffered with severe acid reflux and asthma, which brought its own fears and sleepless nights. Watching your child struggle to breathe is something that stays with you forever. Thankfully, she is still here to this day — growing, loved, and strong — but that experience left a deep mark on me.

That broke something in me.

I was put back on antidepressants and stayed on them for years.

Things looked okay… then everything fell apart

We moved from a maisonette into a house — with a pantry (still one of my favourite things). I started to feel okay again. Stable. Grounded.

Then I got pregnant a third time — on the coil.

I developed gestational diabetes. I gained a lot of weight. I’ve struggled with body dysmorphia my whole life, so this was incredibly hard. I went from 7st 13lb with my first, to 10st with my second, to 12st with my third — and I’m only 4ft 11. I felt like a little potato. I didn’t feel attractive. My hair was falling out. I didn’t recognise myself.

When I found out I was pregnant, I stopped my antidepressants because I didn’t want my daughter’s brain developing while I was on them. I was fine throughout the pregnancy.

Then I gave birth.

The birth that changed everything

This was my third C-section. The first two had been emergencies. I’m terrified of hospitals, needles, cannulas — all of it.

One midwife was caring and kind. Then her shift ended.

The midwife who replaced her sighed and rolled her eyes every time I pressed the call button for help. I had just had major surgery. I couldn’t move properly yet. I couldn’t just jump out of bed, grab my crying baby, and make a bottle quickly.

Eventually, I broke down crying. She asked, “What are you even crying for?”

I told her I felt like a burden. That I didn’t want to keep asking for help. That I just wanted to hold my baby and feed her independently without pressing a button and being judged.

She sniggered and walked off.

So I lied. I pretended I wasn’t in pain so I could go home.

Restarting medication — and losing my mind

At home, I felt deeply sad. Not just low — sad in my bones. My mum told me it was baby blues and hormones and that it would pass. We were told I wasn’t diabetic anymore, which felt like a relief.

The next day, a midwife visited. I mentioned that I felt very low and wondered if I should restart my antidepressants. I had previously been on 40mg of fluoxetine. The midwife smiled confidently and said yes, that would be fine.

I trusted her.

I went for a nap.

I woke up not knowing where I was. I didn’t recognise my home. I didn’t recognise my family. I didn’t know I had children. I was terrified. The dark felt like something was coming for me. I thought my kids would be taken away. I didn’t sleep for 48 hours.

I begged for help.

Being failed — over and over again

I was told I had serotonin overdose alongside postnatal depression and severe anxiety, and that it would pass in three days.

It didn’t.

For five weeks, I was used as a guinea pig. A new antidepressant every single week — despite interactions, despite warnings, despite being on blood thinners after surgery and being asthmatic. I hallucinated. I saw fresh air as solid. My skin crawled. Lights hurt. Clothes hurt. When I closed my eyes, I saw things no mother should ever see.

I kept being told to “wait it out.”

I couldn’t.

I told my mum that day it would end — either they helped me, or I would die.

I went to the GP, dropped to my knees, and begged her to help me so my children wouldn’t grow up without a mother.

That was my breaking point.

The truth finally surfaced

Eventually, someone listened. I was told the truth: I had serotonin syndrome, which caused a temporary psychosis. The antidepressants had unmasked my autism completely. I could no longer mask. I had no understanding of what was happening to my brain.

I was finally assessed properly.

I was diagnosed as severely high-functioning autistic with ADHD.

When I was told, I collapsed to the floor laughing and crying. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t dramatic. I wasn’t weak. There was a reason my brain worked the way it did.

The grief came after.

Then the anger.

Rebuilding from nothing

I want to be clear about something important. I was never a risk to my children. Not ever. Even at my worst moments, I protected them. If I was overwhelmed or breaking down, I would tell them I was going to clean or go into another room. I managed to hide the worst of it from them.

But as they got older, I realised honesty mattered more than hiding.

It’s important to me that my children know their mum is autistic. That it’s nothing to be ashamed of. That I’m the same as any other mum — I can do everything other mums can do — it might just take me a little longer, or I might do it at super speed.

My children are incredible. They are kind, gentle, and understanding in ways that blow me away. I truly believe this journey has made them even kinder — if that’s even possible, because they were kind to begin with. At school, they are the children who sit with the autistic kids, defend them when others are cruel, and make space where others don’t. That makes me prouder than I can ever explain.

My middle daughter is currently on the waiting list for an autism assessment, and my oldest is on the waiting list for ADHD. This blog matters because I want them to see that their mum didn’t hide, didn’t shrink, and didn’t feel ashamed. I want them to grow up knowing that if I can survive this and live openly, then so can they.

When I look back, I realise I went 23 years misdiagnosed. I always knew something was different. I didn’t understand why I cried so easily, why I felt everything so deeply, why I became so attached, why anger came so fast, or why people seemed to leave. Over time, that carved something into my heart — the belief that there must be something wrong with me.

There wasn’t.

I just didn’t know who I was — and if I didn’t know, how could anyone else?

As a teenager, when I showed glimpses of my real self, people thought I was weird. I was a 14-year-old girl listening to Runaway by Del Shannon and old soul music while everyone else was into bassline. So I hid my old albums. I bought the music everyone else liked. I masked, because having friends felt better than being alone.

It wasn’t better.

It harmed me — slowly, quietly — and I didn’t even realise I was losing myself.

I masked for nearly 20 years.

The only person I have ever been completely myself with is my husband. From the very beginning. In the first week I met him, I sat on his knee and accidentally trumped. I was mortified.

He laughed and said, “Good lass.”

And he came back the next day.

He never tried to fix me or change me. He’s had his own struggles with being misunderstood, and somehow we found each other. We were brought up to believe we were “different” — and together, we fit perfectly.

He grew up rough and ready, into bassline, niche, and 90s rap. I grew up on old soul and 1950s music — the stuff my friends ripped the piss out of. Alone together, we could finally be real. That was our bubble.

When everything collapsed in 2020 and I finally understood myself, I made a promise: I will never mask again.

I’m going to be unapologetically me. I’m going to tell my story. If people want to read, they can. If they don’t, they can scroll.

My message is simple: be yourself.

I’m me. I have my mum, my husband, my kids, my dad now and again. I speak to my nan every couple of weeks, my auntie every couple of weeks, and we see my husband’s mum on Sundays. We’ve found a level of peace — no drama, no bullshit.

We listen to country music and 1950s tunes, with the occasional bit of 90s and niche thrown in. Our house is cottage-core on the inside and a shit-hole on the outside — which is exactly why I’m doing this blog.

As I fix myself, I’m fixing my home and my garden too. I’m making it how we like it.

Fuck what everyone else thinks.

We’re creating our peace — until I’m fully independent again, my husband can go back to work, and I can be me again.

The real me.

Why this blog exists

I’ve been stagnant for six years — surviving, but not building. And now I want peace.

I want to be loved for who I am. I want to accept myself. I want to create a life that fits my brain instead of breaking myself trying to fit the world.

This blog is me rebuilding — openly. Autism. ADHD. Motherhood. Marriage. Trauma. Boredom. Joy. Gardening. Creativity. Healing. Being alive.

I want to build a small, quiet life. A garden. A bunny patch. A pond. Maybe ducks. A fruit and veg patch. Preserving food. Baking. Creating. One day, a cosy shed — a little peace pod — where I can work from home and make things.

If people ever want to support that journey, I’ll be open about it — not from entitlement, but from hope.

Mostly, I want to find my people.

So here goes.

This is Day 1.

And now… I can finally breathe.