Day Ten #poemadayfeb: Promise

That we would be an old house restored

with fresh paint and newly hung curtains.

That the roof would be replaced and the

cracks in the wall would be re-plastered

so we would no longer be susceptible to

the bitter winds that blew from the south.

That we would work hard to maintain this

house so it would no longer be a burden

for our weary hands to constantly repair.

And these were the promises you spoke

when we no longer knew how to believe.

We sat amongst the ruins and wrapped

our hands around cups of tea instead of

each other and grasped for a promise

we knew would never be more than

makeshift words.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker // Makeshift Words ~

Day Ten #poemadayfeb: Promise

Day Nine #poemadayfeb: The View From My Window

And one day

you will come to learn

it isn’t just iron bars

that cage our hearts,

and freedom

can’t always be found

in the wide and open spaces.

⁃ note to my younger self

Day Nine #poemadayfeb: The View From My Window

Day Eight #poemadayfeb: Escape


For years my hands have been wrapped
around a glass but I’m three days sober
and there is nothing pretty about that as
I turn up to his doorstep; weather-beaten
and covered in flaxen dust from the many

roads I have taken to find my way there.
He takes a damp cloth and with careful
hands wipes away the years that sweat
from the empty cracks between my skin.
Our words are superseded with kisses;
his lips become a barricade that keeps
fear from spilling onto the ground.
There is a part of me (the part that was
brave enough to tip my last bottle down
the drain) that tells me I should go kneel
before an alt
ar and pray hail mary’s to
God, but religion could never calm the
destruction inside me the way he can,
and even though I made a promise to
him that last time would be the last, we
come together, flesh on flesh; desperate.
Again and again I lose myself in him until
the thirst is no longer a lion clawing at my
throat, until my darkness is hushed by the
constellations mapped inside of his eyes.
Our bodies stay wrapped in the seclusion
of one another and I tell him this time will
be the last, for we are lovers whose hands
are too splintered from the cross we both
carry to hold each other safe, but we have
always been the same, trading addictions
for one other instead; grasping not for our
satisfaction, but our escape.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker // My Sweetest Downfall ~

Day Six #poemadayfeb: Escape

Day Six #poemadayfeb: Ugly

When will we learn

there is nothing ugly

about the stories of


mapped upon our skin.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker // Scars ~

Day Seven #poemadayfeb: Ugly

Day Two #poemadayfeb: Describe Something Without Naming It

Depression .jpg

And this is how it comes to me.
At first, the tiptoe of a sea mist,
unnoticed. A clandestine lover.
A fleeting chill across my skin
as light is hindered by shadow.
Soon it becomes fog, so heavy
upon my chest that my ribcage
snap like twigs underfoot and
I struggle below this pressure
that has blindsided me again.
Someone once told me about
a black dog, but I see only grey,
and then I wonder why they call
sadness blue, when blue is the
sky and the ocean and the cast
of his eyes in the morning light.
There seems happiness in blue
and I am but shrouded in grey;
bleakness, darkness, hopeless.
A blanket weighted with apathy;
I crawl further beneath and find
comfort in the crushing of bones.
I am too exhausted to overthrow
the dark, and allow numbness to
wrap itself around me, and if there
is anything to be more feared than
the black dog, it’s the moment you
pull back the blanket and invite him
in to make himself at home with you.

~ ©️ Kathy Parker // Depression ~

Day Two #poemadayfeb: Describe Something Without Naming It

Their Forgiveness Isn’t Your Responsibility


There are times we hurt others. Whether purposefully or inadvertently, it makes little difference. We have still damaged another through our own actions, and so we seek to make that right. It hurts us to know we have hurt another; we ask forgiveness and seek restoration in the hope to receive grace from those we have wronged.

We hope for the best outcome. We hope for what we perceive as fair.

Sometimes though, we don’t receive forgiveness, no matter how sorry we are. No matter how much we try and make it right. And it’s hard to accept, it’s hard to let go of the injustice we feel at not being granted the forgiveness we had so hoped for.

But this is what we need to remember.

Their forgiveness isn’t your responsibility.

Your responsibility is this: To admit your mistakes. To own your actions. To seek forgiveness. To make right the things you can. To let go of the things you can’t. To learn, to grow, to recognise behaviours in you that have hurt others and change them. To mindfully choose to be a better person, and take necessary action required for that to happen.

But their forgiveness isn’t your responsibility.

We don’t get to control the way others think of us or what they choose to believe about us. We can stand before them with our heart in our hands and ask them to see it – to see us ­– for who we are and not for what we’ve done. But we can’t make someone forgive us who is determined to only believe the worst of us. Who is determined to hold tight to their judgement, their bitterness, their animosity.

This is a hard lesson for people like us to learn.

People like us, who believe in forgiveness. Who give second chances. Who understand the human condition, the way we fail and fall. Who choose to believe people are good, and that until we have walked a mile in their shoes, we will never fully understand the choices they have made. Nor the mistakes they have made, and why they have made them.

We are people who believe mercy triumphs over judgement, and we choose to love others with grace and with second chances, understanding the frailty of our own humanity. And it can be hard to accept there are people who don’t live like this, who don’t love like this.

But what matters is these people aren’t our judges, nor are they our jury. We don’t belong in their courtroom.

What they choose to believe about us is their choice, and who we are isn’t dictated by who they try and make us believe we are.

When we have taken responsibility for our actions, when we have owned our wrongs and sought to make them right, when we have asked forgiveness and reached for reconciliation, then we have done all we need to do. We are no longer bound by their unforgiveness but can walk away knowing we are worthy of our own grace, even when they are unwilling to extend theirs.

What others choose to believe of us is not the truth. It is only their opinion. Only their judgement. Only the evidence of their unenlightened heart.

Their forgiveness isn’t your responsibility.

We don’t always get the outcome we hope for.

But when we have done all we can do, it’s no longer our burden to carry. Just because someone isn’t willing to forgive us, doesn’t make us unforgivable.

Unshackled from the chains of their unforgiveness, we can now run free under skies of grace and redemption.

We can now rise strong.

The Unravelled Heart, a profoundly true reflection on trauma, abuse, love, loss and healing, now available worldwide on Amazon

Image courtesy

To The Mother Who is Struggling


Dear Mother Who is Struggling,

I know you haven’t been yourself lately.

I see it in the way your eyes no longer carry the light the way they used to, their colour faded; like an old photograph that once held a cherished memory, now lost.

Your frown lines have deepened, they outnumber the lines of laughter that once etched the sides of your face, back when your joyful smile would reach that far, back when your shoulders were straight and the weight of your tiredness didn’t pull you down.

You love your babies, I know you do.

But this is hard.

And you are tired. So damn tired.

And maybe this is what adds to the tiredness; the guilt that you shouldn’t feel this way. You wonder if you’re the only mother out there who feels so isolated, so alone, so exhausted. Or do they all have these villages you hear of; support networks of family and friends who share the burden of raising a family, while you wake up each morning and wonder how you will get through another day on your own?

There was a world you used to belong to, and you grieve it. It’s there in front of you, every day, on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter – there, in the radiant faces of other women as they go about their social lives, their holidays, gym classes, dates, promotions. You wonder how, in a world so connected by social media, you are left feeling so goddamn disconnected from it all.

Surrounded by little people, noise, clutter, you find yourself lonelier than ever. But it’s not a loneliness from being alone. It’s a loneliness that comes from being so far from yourself, so far from who you once were. You don’t even know who that is anymore. You feel as though you’ve traded your whole identity to be a mother. Sacrificed your entire life to care for those around you. This is all you know now. This is all your life has become.

And you miss the woman you once were, and the life you once had.

You long for your independence, your spontaneity, your carefree. For road trips and dinner dates and live music and nights out in the city. For beach days and lazy Sundays in bed and to read a book, uninterrupted. Drained, you yearn for the things that bring nurture to your tired body and soul as you force yourself through another day on the scarce remnants of what you have left to give.

Around you, other mothers appear cool, unflustered; they’ve got this. You wonder if they catch a glimpse of the defeat in your eyes before you look the other way, if they can sense the effort it takes to simply place one foot in front of the other.

I know this is hard. But take heart, dear one.

It won’t always be this way. It won’t always be so hard. Days will get easier. There will be more moments to be still, to breathe, more moments to laugh again. There will be more moments where you can reach inside and find the misplaced pieces of the woman you used to be, and the days will begin to feel less lonely as you journey back to your own heart.

I know you think the way you struggle makes you a failure. That because of this, you fall short and aren’t enough. Don’t believe these lies. Be gentle on your heart, for every day you face the hardest job, alone, and you make it through. No matter how hard, you don’t give up. You show up, and continue to do the best with what you have. And some days that may not seem like enough.

But every day, you continue to love.

And that will always be more than enough.

I know this is hard. But for now, this is all you need to know.

This too shall pass.  

And when you close your eyes tonight, write those words on the back of your eyelids, and watch as they fall away beneath your skin and seep into your bloodstream where they will reach your heart and kiss it with the hope that will get you through your tomorrows.

You may not feel it today, but I promise you, my love – you’ve got this.

Image courtesy The Winged Woman