Hi everyone and hello new friends.

Let me tell you a little story. Here I am at 34, plump baby in my arms — The Boy Who Never Slept. I spent the first eleven months of Luke’s life sleeping and waking, day and night, 40 minutes at a time like he did. I was so sleep deprived that I have photos of myself at parties and gatherings I can’t even remember attending. I’d call the Tresilian Sleep Help Hotline, they’d tell me it was a two week wait to get in for help, I’d think it was too long to wait, put the phone down and keep on keeping on.

I was an inexperienced mum and completely, utterly exhausted. Not putting my name on that waiting list was an indication just how incoherent I was. In fact, I look back on that time now as so traumatic it makes me feel PTSD about the lack of sleep. But there I was, alone in Australia, a new mum at 34, no real friends yet and no idea what to do.

It was hard. Today, I look at that younger me and think, “I wish I could help you! I know what to do now. Put your name on that sleep-help list because he still won’t be sleeping in two weeks’ time. Go to a hotel by yourself for 24 hours. Ask your husband to bottle feed the baby for a night — it will be fine for him.” But at the time, all I could do in my state of endless exhaustion was keep going.

Forward, forward, forward, trudge, trudge.

I wasn’t thinking straight, of course, but sometimes we all do this…forge ahead into a situation and keep going, instead of lifting our head above the mire and trying to take stock of the situation to change it. And sometimes we do this because, mixed in with the difficulty, there’s a lot of joy.

I was joyful here, in this photo. My baby was perfect. I was beloved. And exhausted and young and inexperienced…wow I was young.

Over to you today. Is there a time when you’d like to reach back to your younger self and gently give her some wisdom and encouragement?

Here’s the truth: we’re allowed to let go of old misunderstandings.

We can listen to ourselves.

One of my favourite free meditations of all time is Sarah Blondin’s Loving and Listening to Yourself. Sarah is a beautiful Canadian from British Columbia and you’ll love her. If you have 12 minutes to listen to this, it’s worth it. This particular mediation has 2 million downloads and honestly is so beautiful.

Loving and listening to ourselves: it’s just so important. We need to honour all the versions of ourselves we’ve ever been.

I wish I could tell this beautiful young Catherine that her baby will be 21 this week, that he’s doing two degrees in Law and Commerce, that he’s building a start-up, that he makes a mean American barbecue, that he’s an amazing cook, loves playing the cello, and personality-wise is almost an exact replica of his Dad. That it all turns out beautifully. That he even takes you for lunch at his favourite Vietnamese restaurant from time to time.

I’ve been a mum for twenty-one years, and I still carry all the versions inside of me of every person I ever was.

• The five year old who had a pet deer on the farm, and dirty bare feet all summer long.

• The ten year old whose hobby was “making books” in recycled duotang folders.

• The young teacher, the grad student, the Canadian, the Aussie, the ups and downs and struggles that, of course, no one sees in photos like these.

The struggles—we all have them.

The joys—we have those, too.

All this reminds me of a favourite poem. I’ll share it with you here today, and hope that it makes you remember yourself and love yourself (all the versions of you) on this fine Sunday.

I’m thinking of you.

Love, Catherine x

To My Nine-Year-Old Self

by Helen Dunmore

You must forgive me. Don’t look so surprised,
perplexed, and eager to be gone,
balancing on your hands or on the tightrope.
You would rather run than walk, rather climb than run
rather leap from a height than anything.

I have spoiled this body we once shared.
Look at the scars, and watch the way I move,
careful of a bad back or a bruised foot.
Do you remember how, three minutes after waking
we’d jump straight out of the ground floor window
into the summer morning?

That dream we had, no doubt it’s as fresh in your mind
as the white paper to write it on.
We made a start, but something else came up –
a baby vole, or a bag of sherbet lemons –
and besides, that summer of ambition
created an ice-lolly factory, a wasp trap
and a den by the cesspit.

I’d like to say that we could be friends
but the truth is we have nothing in common
beyond a few shared years. I won’t keep you then.
Time to pick rosehips for tuppence a pound,
time to hide down scared lanes
from men in cars after girl-children,

or to lunge out over the water
on a rope that swings from that tree
long buried in housing –
but no, I shan’t cloud your morning. God knows
I have fears enough for us both –

I leave you in an ecstasy of concentration
slowly peeling a ripe scab from your knee
to taste it on your tongue.