Emotional few days

It’s been a bit of an emotional couple of days for us.

Yesterday was actually meant to be such a lovely milestone. We took Betsie to the play park in town for the first time in eight months. Eight whole months of watching from a distance, of saying “not yet,” of being careful in ways most people never have to think about. And she loved it. Proper, carefree, childhood joy — running, laughing, exploring everything like it was brand new.

And then, in a split second, it all changed. She fell while running and cut her hand open. What would normally be a quick clean-up and a plaster suddenly felt much bigger. We had to call our team, explain everything, and head into A&E. Something so simple felt so overwhelming.

But we were incredibly lucky. The staff were amazing — they understood straight away that Betsie can’t sit in a waiting room, and they got us into a side room quickly. We were seen so fast, treated with so much kindness, and got her patched up and home. Still, it shook me more than I expected.

Today, we wanted to make up for yesterday. To give her another day of fun, another chance to just be a little girl. So we went to Fishers Farm — and again, she absolutely loved it. Smiles, laughter, excitement… just pure happiness.

And then it happened again.

She fell and hit her head. Straight away, a huge lump and bruise came up. That instant wave of panic hit — the kind that’s become far too familiar. I was back on the phone to our team, running through everything, checking every detail. Thankfully, they were reassuring and happy for us to treat it as a “normal” head bump — just keeping a close eye on her, watching for sickness, all the usual things.

But emotionally… it’s been a lot.

I think what’s been hardest is the feeling that the moments we try to give her a bit of freedom, a bit of normal childhood, are the moments she gets hurt the most. It makes you question everything. Have we been too restrictive? Not restrictive enough? Are we doing the right thing?

And then I look at her.

After everything she’s been through, everything she continues to go through, she just… carries on. She smiles. She laughs. She gets back up and keeps going like nothing can dim her light. There’s something incredibly humbling about that.

I’m sitting here feeling a bit sad, a bit overwhelmed, but also so proud of her. She reminds me every day what resilience really looks like.

Maybe this is just part of it — finding that impossible balance between protecting her and letting her live. And maybe there isn’t a perfect answer.

But what I do know is this: she is brave, she is joyful, and she is teaching me more than I could ever teach her.