The aftermath, Secondary losses & effects of an atomic bomb.

Research POV:Women tend to hold on to the stress of divorce longer than men. (DUH). Scientists trace this to a sudden decrease in standard of living, the burden of childcare, and administrative tasks that can persist long after the separation is finalized. More specifically, single mothers are more likely than cohabiting mothers (those who live with a spouse or partner; Kendig & Bianchi, 2008) to experience episodic and chronic depression, anxiety, substance abuse, stressful life events, low self-esteem, social isolation, and lack of emotional support. Not to mention, the economic status of single mothers. The statistics infuriate me.

Psychological Imbalance:Single mothers encounter higher psychological distress. Our nervous systems are wrecked by the weight we carry every day. But tell you what—I’ve never been more determined to break the status quo.

Secondary losses continue years after the fact. I’m always rushing, always driving to and from, and car rides with four overtired, hungry boys are not fun after a day of teaching teenagers, mostly girls. I’m the sole go-to contact for two schools and a preschool/daycare. Someone always needs me, which is heavy some days. I’ve lost touch with friends because I cannot prioritize friendships. I pick my own Christmas presents. I don’t get time to eat properly. I can’t prioritize my diet; instead, my timeline and food choices for dinner are based on what works for my toddlers. I’m no longer included in couple social gatherings. Heartbreakingly, I no longer can volunteer at the kids' school, be an involved school mum, go on excursions as a helper, or work in the canteen. I lose touch with my mum friends, who mean so much to me. My house is never in order to my liking, and that alone is stressful. I forget a lot. Due to the cortisol levels in my body, my heart rate is high, and my blood pressure is higher. Prolonged exposure to these stress hormones causes inflammation and dysfunction in the brain, affecting mood and memory. I’m always bumping into things, dropping stuff. I lack spatial awareness because my brain is in overdrive. My thyroid starts malfunctioning, and I’m losing weight. I forget to drink water. I’m scared to spend money. When the boys are asleep, I stay in a frozen state for about an hour before I start what I call my night shift. I can't keep this up. Change is coming.

Let’s go back so we can move forward.

We’re going to jump around a bit here. You’ll get used to it.

Context:I was born into working-class poverty, raised in Western Sydney by a single mother of four who suffered from schizophrenia. I had no strong parental attachment and endured sexual and mental abuse by my paternal grandfather throughout my childhood and early teens. I was frequently moved around, cared for by neighbors who became family and family friends who became lifelines. I’ve attended more schools than I can count. The list of address changes is long, and even my name was confusing. With three last names to choose from—sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes hyphenated—getting my license and a bank account was a nightmare.

There were moments when I was proud to carry my stepdad’s name. He was a good man for most of my childhood, until he wasn’t. I used to proudly tell the story of how this hardworking, handsome man from a ‘normal’ family married my hot, crazy mum of four kids. They lived out their fairy tale, had the most beautiful wedding their working-class friends could imagine, and left Sydney for a country cottage overlooking the Broken Back Ranges in the Hunter Valley. When I told my Sydney school friends we were moving to a town called Kurri Kurri, they didn’t believe me. But then again, I also told them my Nan could time travel because the days changed when she went to and from America. I didn’t quite understand the time difference back then—fml, I was that kid.

Sadly, alcohol ruins everything, and the move was the catalyst for my childhood ending.

During my first year of uni, I came across Maslow’s theory of needs. (Go Google this.) Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is a theory of motivation stating that five categories of human needs dictate an individual’s behavior, forming the basis of much modern psychological treatment. These needs are physiological, safety, love and belonging, esteem, and self-actualization. This blew my mind. Maslow’s argument is that basic needs must be met before one can move on to more advanced needs.

No wonder I was stuck in my life—I couldn’t get past the first two stages of what a human needs to function.

In my entire life, I had never felt safety. I lived in a state of fight or flight from a very young age. So when I met my boys’ dad, the calmest person I had ever encountered at 18, I was sold. Signed, sealed, delivered.

Fast forward, and I’m slowly coming out of shock. I cry less, or for shorter amounts of time. I can leave the house and take the kids to the beach five minutes away. I remember my first trip to the grocery store with four kids—the only way to describe it would be a complete disaster. I’m so thankful for the playgroup mum I ran into in line, who loaded my trolley, helped with the tangled baby carrier, and walked me to my car.

It’s still lockdown, which I’m thankful for because not only did my whole world stop, but the actual whole world did too. This forced me to stop working and allowed me to just be with my boys as everything unfolded.

Maybe I was coming out of the denial stage of grief and moving on to anger. I only had bargaining, depression, and acceptance left to go.

Now what?

I’m left with the costs of cleaning up both my life and his mess. $2,132 was the cost to dispose of a chopped-up boat he got for “free” off Gumtree and left in our yard. I had an unfinished salon, random materials wasting away, and four acres to take care of solo—with four boys, one being a baby. My head was spinning. I breathed shallowly, and I was shaky. Yet, with the boys, I felt a weird sense of calm. I played with them on the floor, always wanting to hold one. Breastfeeding kept me present, attached, and in the moment. I held them close. My youngest two slept with me every night. I stayed up late with my eldest, having cups of tea and long talks. He carried all of us through that time, helping with his brothers, especially.

I just tried to get through the day.

I called him daily, sent texts with photos of the boys, hoping to spark something in him. I begged, pleaded, reasoned. He was gone, and there was nothing I could do. There’s so much more to this, but this isn’t about him. I will say this: the person I loved was kind, humble, calm, and considerate. He was a calm dad, never yelled, and never raised a hand to the boys. He loved his kids. He was quietly, humbly smart. Everyone wanted to be his mate. He never stopped me from chasing ideas and starting new businesses.

Looking back, was that just a lack of care or motivation? He just struggled with life, and here I am, picking up the pieces.

I had to come to terms with the fact that the man I loved doesn’t exist anymore.

Cue: stage denial is over. I still cry about this. In fact, it’s 11:45 p.m. right now, and I just stopped the tears to finish typing this up. I’ve gone back and forth for days, trying different writing styles, searching for PhD scholar articles on the effects of separation, abandonment, and childhood trauma to add some backed data. But after the hurt passed again, I just started writing from the heart, so that’s what this will be.

There is so much resentment that comes with being left to carry the load—the day-to-day weight of a newborn, breastfeeding, bathing a little baby while three other little boys need you, on top of just wanting to cry nonstop. What should have been special moments were me weathering a storm. I still get angry years later. I didn’t have the luxury of healing. I didn’t have a minute to feel sorry for myself. I couldn’t stop. I was overwhelmed, always on the verge of tears. The lump in my throat wouldn’t go away, and my stomach was always in knots.

Years later, I’m still crying. I need to find closure that isn’t from him, because that’s not coming. It has to come from me.

You know the bear song: “Can’t go under it, can’t go over it.” I have to go through it. Well, we’re going through it, and I’m taking you with me.

Now that I have peace, some stability, and support I’ve never encountered before, I start to process everything. And it’s hitting hard—revisiting, remembering, facing it, unpacking it, and sharing the journey online. Not just being alone with the boys but being alone as a child too.

I hope no one gets hurt in the process. I hope the opposite. I care about what people think and even more how my actions now make people feel. Over the years, in therapy, I’ve been asked, “What’s something you like about yourself?” My usual answer was my strength. I used to think it was admirable, a badge of pride. “Look at me, look how strong I am. I don’t need anyone.” But honestly, I hate my strength. Look what I had to go through to get it.

Today, if asked that question, my answer would be my empathy. I have the ability to see things from many perspectives, and I know what it's like to have nothing. I never want anyone to feel like I did—as a scared child, a lost kid, a broken teen, a new, alone mum. From now on, I want to ensure I leave others better than I found them, judge less, and listen more because people’s stories matter.

At the end of the day, we are all just walking each other home.

Self-reflection is powerful. Forgiving yourself too. I encourage you to take some time to look deep within. I don’t need to tell you why—you’ll know.

My words have gotten me into trouble my whole life, but this time, they’ve brought me strength, healing, three podcast invites, a trip to Tasmania, and some audacity I had lost.

Until next time, when the rebuild begins.

All that,Jas x