Start by Listening, Not Defending
You wanna know what real growth looks like? It’s not meditating in the Himalayas or reading five parenting books in a week. It’s looking your child dead in the eye while they say, “Mum, you’re being a B_ _ _ _ H,” and not replying with “When I was your age, I’d have got a slipper for even thinking that!”
Nope. It’s standing there, menopausal, emotional, probably sweating like you’ve just done a HIIT workout by accident and saying, “Okay. Tell me more.”
It sounds easy. It’s not.
Life After Separation: A Hormonal War Zone
I had no choice but to learn this, especially after I separated. Suddenly, it was just me and the boys though to be fair, we weren’t all under one roof. My eldest was in his final year at university, navigating his own mountain of stress and expectations. But the emotional fallout didn’t care about postcodes it seeped into phone calls, texts, the unspoken space between us. My youngest was still at home, right in the eye of the storm with me. No buffer. No distractions. Just the two of us, trying to survive the emotional minefield of divorce, puberty, and menopause.
Menopause: The Unexpected Saboteur
Menopause, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t my best friend and still isn't. One minute I was laughing, the next I was raging, and two minutes later I was sobbing on the kitchen floor surrounded by crumbs and unpaid bills, wondering what the hell just happened. I wasn’t even entirely sure what was real anymore. Was I genuinely heartbroken, or did someone just leave a wet towel on the bed? I couldn't tell.
And the kicker? I didn’t even know I was in menopause. I thought I was losing my mind.
By the time I dragged myself to the doctor half-broken, clinging to the remnants of my sanity the damage had already started. Menopause wasn’t just messing with my body; it was messing with my relationship with my kids. And just to make things more chaotic both boys hit puberty at the same bloody time. Hormones flying through the house like chemical warfare. Testosterone clashing violently with oestrogen withdrawals. Not exactly a winning combination.
Fights, Silence, and the Mum I Didn’t Want to Be
We fought. We screamed. There were days when all three of us were shouting at the same time, voices rising like a Greek tragedy, and no one even remembered what started it. Doors were slammed, feelings were hurt, and silence hung in the air like fog. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. And the worst part? I could feel myself becoming the mum I never wanted to be. The moody one. The unpredictable one. The one whose child tiptoed around her.
And while my eldest left for uni after dealing with his crazy mum for a year or two during these outbursts, I knew he felt them. The tension seeped through our calls. I could hear the hesitation in his voice, the careful pauses, the quiet recalibration as he tried to figure out which version of me he was getting that day. That broke me just as much.
“Tell Me Anyway” Creating Space to Be Called Out
It took me a while, but eventually I sat them both down and said, “Listen, if I say or do something that hurts you, tell me. Even if I look like I’m about to explode. Tell me anyway. I want to learn. I need to learn.”
And guess what? It worked. Not immediately, not magically. But slowly. Things changed. We started talking instead of shouting. I began hearing them instead of just waiting for my turn to respond. I learned how to be a better parent not a perfect one, but a better one.
Permission to Grow
- My boys don’t need me to be perfect.
- They just need me to keep trying.
- To keep showing up.
- To say, “I’m sorry,” when I get it wrong.
- And I do get it wrong.
There are still moments where I snap, not because they’ve done something wrong, but because I’m overwhelmed, anxious, or spiralling into my own emotional backlog. But I try to apologise straight away. I don’t let it sit. I’ve learned that when things are left unsaid, they don’t just disappear they fester. They turn into resentment, confusion, disconnection.
So now, when I mess up, I say it. “I’m sorry.” Then I ask, “What could I have done differently?” And I mean it. That humility, that vulnerability, it didn’t come naturally. It came from years of having to fight for my own voice.
Speaking Up: The First Time I Fought Back
Let me take you back.
It wasn’t a grand moment. No orchestral soundtrack playing. I was in the kitchen (again), we’d just finished lunch and a round of board games, and I was holding back tears. Not because of anything the boys had done, but because I was absolutely burnt out. I’d just lost a well-paying job, I was juggling rent, bills, and emotions, and I needed one of them to step up. Just something anything to take the pressure off. Maybe a part-time job, maybe helping out more around the house, maybe just not leaving dishes in the sink all day.
In that moment, I let my guard down. I said what I needed. But more importantly, I gave them space to say what they needed too. That shift from control to conversation changed everything.
Before I Was a Mum, I Was a Daughter Learning to Rebel
And the very first time I ever stood up for myself? That wasn’t with my kids. That was with my parents.
I’d had enough. Enough of being told not to go out, not to see friends, not to have dreams unless they aligned with someone else’s timetable for my life. Their only mission, it seemed, was to marry me off. And look I’m not anti-arranged marriage. I’ve seen them work beautifully when built on mutual respect and shared values. But this wasn’t that.
They’d brought us to London for a better life, then expected us to live by the rules of 1940s Nairobi. Not even the Nairobi of my parents’ generation the grandparents’ Nairobi, all "What will people say?" and "No, girls don’t do that."
Two Years Away: Exile and Liberation
So I snapped. I packed a suitcase and left. I vanished for two years. They didn’t know where I was. My sibling did, but was sworn to secrecy. I was heartbroken and liberated in equal measure. I missed them. But I couldn’t live in that contradiction anymore.
When I finally came back, I didn’t creep in quietly. I said what I needed to say:
“If you wanted us married at 18, you shouldn’t have brought us to a country that teaches us to think, to speak up, to live. You can’t raise us in one culture and expect us to die in another.”
It was hard. But it opened a door. We argued. We negotiated. And somehow, we found new ground.
The Mini Skirt and the Judgemental Stare
Then came the mini-skirt moment. I was strutting to the train station, ready for a night out, looking like an absolute snack, legs out, confidence on. A relative who’d always been on my case saw me and gave me that classic judgemental stare, like her eyeballs were going to fall out. She didn’t even need to say anything; her face did all the talking.
So I smiled and said, “I left home wearing this. My parents know where I’m going and who with. Maybe check on your own kids before worrying about me. Take a stroll through the park or canal sometime see what they’re up to.”
She never said a word to me again.
I Stopped Chasing Their Approval
Because here's the truth: I was never going to win the aunties over. I was too loud, too bold, too opinionated, too independent. I wasn’t the quiet, obedient poster-child they wanted me to be. I stopped caring. I started living.
And by living my truth, I showed my kids how to speak theirs. I gave them permission to question, to push back, to demand respect even from me. Especially from me.
Breaking Cycles Means Letting Go of Ego
- Because breaking generational curses isn’t glamorous.
- It’s gritty. It’s awkward. It’s deeply uncomfortable.
- It’s sitting in the rubble of your own parenting mistakes, swallowing your pride, and saying to your kids: “I got it wrong. But I want to do better.”
- It’s letting go of ego.
- Swallowing the lump in your throat when your child calls you out.
- Fighting the urge to say, “In my day…” and instead choosing to listen.
- Choosing to grow.
I’m Your Mum, Not Your Mate — And That’s Love
And still—still—reminding them gently:
- “I’m your mum, not your mate. I love you, but if I see you doing something daft, I will call it out. Respect goes both ways.”
- That’s the balance.
- That’s the messy middle.
- That’s where the healing happens.
Not in perfection.
But in permission to evolve, to speak, to love more honestly.
