’18 months after my daughter has been murdered the longing and missing feels different and it scares me. There’s an acceptance that she is never coming back in the physical form for me to embrace her as I stroke and smell her beautiful hair. ‘
So it’s May 6th 2026, 12 days until the dreaded 18th when the court trial begins for the murder of my daughter. It’s not the first time that I feel utterly exhausted not just physical exhaustion put the exhaustion of the soul and spirit.
Waking up with unexplained neck tension and the feeling of being surrounded by a web of pressure is not new to me. Feeling hyper aware of my vulnerabilities and the vulnerabilities of the children and women around me knowing that I must pave a way forge through with insurmountable strength to protect them.
I have normalised this feeling and have always thought this is what it feels like to be a woman. What’s new though is the continuous nightmares of unprocessed thoughts and feelings that span my whole life, wanting to wake up but feeling pinned to the bed and too brain dead to get up.
18 months after my daughter has been murdered the longing and missing feels different and it scares me. There’s an acceptance that she is never coming back in the physical form for me to embrace her as I stroke and smell her beautiful hair. Isla didn’t hold back in her generous hugs, wild heart opened wide.
Every morning I have no idea what I’m going to do with my day. I have a loose structure of coffee, meditation and some gardening. It’s so difficult for me to describe this feeling of having no form.
I am dictating these words and crying. I don’t cry when I type so this dictation feels more cathartic. I’ve been a mother for most of my adult life and this particular loss of identity feels senseless…
I had no choice in the matter. But what choices to we really have in our lives? I try to surrender daily and welcome the love back into my heart. This usually requires me to to dive into the ocean, as I cry and breathe in the beauty that surrounds me looking at the cliff face, tea trees and birds that cocoon around me.
I swim towards the east on my back as I kick my legs with the late afternoon westerly sun shining and reflecting the most iridescent light off the splashes. “This is the truth of who we are Mum, like you always told me,” I hear Isla say. Writing this now brings me no comfort but I’ve lived long enough to trust in the process.
I’ve only been awake for an hour and feel as though I’ve been dumped by waves all night. Today is another day that I choose to ride a wave of loss and desperately wanting to be found.
Why do I put off my swim, as if it’s a last resort? Not many people are in the water this time of year and I always encourage onlookers to jump in, “I never regret it,” I say. I just saved this document and returned to my original thoughts before I started writing.
A conversation with Apple via email in regards to obtaining my daughter’s data. This process requires a solicitor and money. Why have I not included her photo ID? I remind them that as discussed, she has none because the men who allegedly murdered her threw out her wallet and bag in the bin. I stop myself from typing,
“then they also threw my daughter’s dead body into the bin.”
