This piece contains references to alcohol misuse and medical trauma. 

A childhood shaped between care and chaos

This is one of the moments that shaped how I learned to sit with uncertainty, in hospitals and in life. 

Hospitals have a way of making time feel strange, moments stretch and shrink until all that’s left is the rhythm of your own breathing. 

I’ve lived with an ileostomy for 22 years now. No complications. The same flat pouch I was given when my stoma was formed.

In those two decades, I’ve had two children via caesarean section, healed, rebuilt my strength and finally put the relentless fight with ulcerative colitis behind me. 

But it didn’t start that way

By the time I was fifteen, I’d already been admitted to hospital around a dozen times in just six months.

My ulcerative colitis had come on suddenly, almost in sync with my mother’s latest three-month stay in the local psychiatric hospital.

The kind of old-fashioned institution with long corridors, peeling paint and a sterile smell that clung to your clothes long after you left. 

This admission came with a twist 

A doctor took my mother and me into a small, dimly lit room. I remember the muted green floor, the green vinyl couch and the heaviness of the air. His voice was calm, measured and absolute. 

If you don’t have emergency surgery, you have two months to live. 

Everything after that blurred.

My ears rang.

My vision narrowed.

All I could focus on was how small and green that room felt. 

When we left, my mother led me to the TV room at the end of the ward, a cramped space with mismatched chairs, the hum of a vending machine and a programme no one was really watching.

Then, as if it were routine, she pulled a brown paper bag from her coat and took a swig of vodka. 

With alcohol already in her system, the moment unravelled quickly. At a time when I needed comfort, protection and care . . . I was met with chaos instead. 

Back then, I told myself this was just how life was.

You learn to read the room before you can read a book.

You grow up fast and call it normal.

I didn’t know it then but moments like this were shaping the woman I would become, someone who learned early how to sit with uncertainty, because there was no other choice. 

What you can take from this part of my story 

Your “normal” isn’t always universal. Growing up in chaos can make it feel that way – recognising the difference is a step toward healing. 

You can carry hard truths and still keep going. Even when the adults around you can’t be who you need, you can find your own way through. 

Moments shape you quietly. The strength you have now may have been built in the background, long before you noticed it. 

It’s okay to talk about it now. What once had to be hidden can be shared, in your own time and in your own way. 

This post reflects personal experience and reflection, not medical or professional advice.