The bad and your parenting journey

When Parenthood Isn’t What You Pictured: Finding Strength After a Premature Birth

By Laura Johnstone

I don’t think anyone ever truly expects their baby to be born prematurely. We spend months preparing, imagining the moment we hold our baby for the first time, the quiet days at home, the cuddles, and the feeds. We picture the milestones, the first smile, and their little hands wrapped around our finger.

But when your baby is born too soon, everything changes.

I remember sitting in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), listening to the beeping machines, trying to wrap my head around what had just happened. My daughter wasn’t supposed to arrive yet. And suddenly, all those pictures in my head — the ones I had been clinging to for months — were replaced by fear, grief, and overwhelming uncertainty.

For many of us, becoming a parent starts in survival mode.

The Grief of Lost Expectations

When your baby is born early, it’s not just a medical emergency — it’s also an emotional earthquake. You grieve the birth you didn’t get to have. You grieve the lost skin-to-skin contact, the baby showers you cancelled, and the first cuddles that came with wires and monitors instead of blankets and lullabies.

And it’s okay to feel that way.

Too often, we’re told to just be grateful. “At least they’re here.” But gratitude and grief can live side by side. You’re allowed to be heartbroken for what you missed while still being endlessly thankful for your baby’s fight.

Finding Strength You Didn’t Know You Had

No one tells you that you’ll become an expert in medical jargon, or that you’ll be tracking millilitres of milk and oxygen saturations before your baby can even open their eyes.

But you do.

Because you have to.

And somewhere in the blur of alarms and consultant updates, something shifts. You realise you’re stronger than you ever imagined. You’re advocating, you’re surviving, and even in your tears, you’re showing up for your baby every single day.

Your Baby’s Strength Becomes Yours

Premature babies are tiny miracles. They teach us that strength doesn’t come from size. Every breath, every feed, every gram gained — it all becomes a reason to celebrate.

Watching my daughter fight showed me how resilient the human spirit can be. Her journey taught me to believe in hope, even on the hardest days. And I know I’m not alone in that.

It’s Okay If It Still Hurts

Even when you’re home, and the monitors are gone, and life looks “normal” — the trauma lingers. You might flinch at hospital smells. You might feel triggered by another baby’s birth story. And sometimes, you might still mourn the parenthood you didn’t get.

That doesn’t make you ungrateful — it makes you human.

Postnatal depression, PTSD, anxiety — they are all real and valid responses to traumatic birth and NICU experiences. If you are struggling, please reach out. There is help. You are not alone.

Redefining Parenthood

Parenthood might not have started the way you hoped, but it’s still yours. It’s okay to rewrite your story — with love, strength, and resilience at its heart.

You are not broken because your journey looked different.

You are brave.

You are enough.

You are exactly the parent your baby needs.

If this post spoke to you, please like, share, and subscribe to The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey. We are building a village — a town, even — where parents like you are always seen and never alone.

References:

Bliss. (2024). Caring for a premature baby. https://www.bliss.org.uk Tommy’s. (2024). Premature birth and NICU support. https://www.tommys.org Sands. (2024). Support for baby loss and bereavement. https://www.sands.org.uk NHS. (2024). Mental health after birth. https://www.nhs.uk/mental-health/perinatal

Rediscovering Me: How Ryan Helped Me Embrace My Inner Geek

Before I met Ryan, I spent too long trying to shrink myself. I was in relationships where I was made to feel embarrassed for liking the things that brought me joy — things like Star Wars, Doctor Who, Marvel films, and all things wonderfully geeky. I was told they were “stupid” and “lame,” and over time, I began to believe that maybe I was silly for loving them. I stopped sharing that part of myself and slowly lost touch with who I really was.

Then came Ryan. And everything changed.

From the moment I stepped into the flat he had before we moved in together, I saw it: a TARDIS painted proudly on the bedroom door. Not a poster. Not a sticker. A full-on, hand-painted TARDIS. It was bold, unapologetic, and beautiful — and it made me smile. His parents had once joked that the TARDIS would have to go once he got a girlfriend. But instead of asking him to paint over it, I embraced it. I loved it.

That TARDIS reminded me of the version of myself I had hidden away. The girl who found joy in other galaxies, who loved the sound of the sonic screwdriver, and who believed in the power of stories. Ryan helped bring her back to life.

One thing I can say with all my heart is this: Ryan is my best friend. And that matters. My mum and dad always told me, “Only ever marry your best friend.” I’ve learned to add my own piece to that: Only ever marry your best friend — and make sure they bring out the best in you. Make sure they remind you of who you are.

Because for someone like me — someone who masked heavily for most of my life, who spent years not knowing who I really was — finding my identity has been a journey. And therapy has played a vital part in that. It’s helped me unpick the layers and understand my neurodivergence, but so has Ryan. He has always reminded me that who I am is enough. And that I should never feel ashamed of the things that bring me joy.

Yes, today’s blog prompt was about collections, and our home is filled with little geeky treasures — from Funko Pops to artwork, to the Cardis I made for our wedding, and even Stormbreaker and Thor’s hammer. But this blog is really about something bigger: it’s about embracing who you are, and never letting anyone make you feel small for the things you love. Especially if, like me, those special interests are part of your neurodivergent identity.

Through Ryan, I’ve remembered what it feels like to be me. And that is the greatest love story I could ever write.

Call to action:

If you’ve ever felt like you had to hide parts of yourself to be loved, let this be your sign: the right people will never ask you to change. They’ll hand you a sonic screwdriver, paint a TARDIS on the door, and say you’re brilliant just as you are.

Please like, share, and subscribe for more on parenting, neurodivergence, and embracing the good, the bad, and everything in between on your journey to finding yourself.

Do you have any collections?

What I Want My Legacy to Be: A Life Rooted in Compassion and Love

By Laura Johnstone

Legacy. It’s a big word, isn’t it? It sounds like something reserved for kings and queens, for politicians and poets, for people whose names will be etched in history books. But I believe we all leave a legacy—every single one of us—through the way we love, the way we live, and the way we treat those around us.

When I think about my own legacy, I don’t want it to be measured by awards or titles. I want people to say, “Laura made people feel seen. She helped others when they felt alone. She showed love when the world felt cold.”

I want my legacy to be compassion—not just as a word, but as an action. I want to be remembered as someone who sat with others in their pain, who didn’t try to fix everything, but simply showed up with empathy and understanding. Whether that’s been supporting parents in NICU, helping neurodiverse families navigate the maze of systems, or simply being a shoulder to cry on, I hope I’ve made a difference.

I want to be remembered for love—not just romantic love, but the fierce, protective, vulnerable kind. The kind of love that holds your hand when you’re scared. The kind of love that fights for better care, better access, better understanding—for our babies, our children, and ourselves.

And I want to be remembered for helping others. If just one parent feels less alone because of something I’ve written or shared, if one child feels celebrated instead of shamed because of their differences, then I know my life has meant something.

To the mums still in the trenches, to the families fighting for their children to be seen and supported, to the ones navigating grief and joy side-by-side—I see you. And if I can use my voice, my story, and my experiences to shine a light in those dark places, that’s the legacy I want to leave behind.

Call to Action:

If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to like, share and subscribe to The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey. Let’s build a community where compassion leads the way.

References:

Sands (Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Charity): https://www.sands.org.uk NHS: Supporting parents in NICU – https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/premature-babies/support/ National Autistic Society: https://www.autism.org.uk

What is the legacy you want to leave behind?

Why Scrapping EHCPs Would Be a Devastating Step Backwards for Our Children

By Laura Johnstone

As a parent of a suspected neurodivergent child—and someone who has lived through the challenges of neurodiversity myself—the proposal to scrap Education, Health and Care Plans (EHCPs) is not just worrying, it’s terrifying.

EHCPs were introduced to ensure children and young people with special educational needs (SEN) and disabilities receive tailored support across education, health, and social care. They are legally binding documents that protect the rights of children who need additional help to learn, develop and thrive. To take these away, or even to dilute their power, would not just be a bureaucratic change. It would be a denial of support, an erasure of identity, and a removal of safety for thousands of families.

Let me be very clear: scrapping EHCPs would be catastrophic for children’s education and their social development.

1. Education: A Right, Not a Privilege

EHCPs aren’t “nice extras”—they’re lifelines. For many children with complex needs, an EHCP is the only way to secure one-to-one support, specialist teaching, or even access to an appropriate school environment.

Without them, many neurodivergent children risk:

Being excluded from mainstream education. Falling through the cracks in underfunded and overstretched school systems. Receiving blanket, one-size-fits-all approaches that don’t work for their learning styles.

We’ve come a long way from the days when children with disabilities were either sent to institutions or left to struggle without support in mainstream settings. Taking EHCPs away would send us back decades.

2. Socialisation: Isolation by Policy

Children with additional needs already face social barriers. Friendships can be harder to form. Understanding unspoken rules of play or conversation doesn’t come naturally for every child.

EHCPs help level the playing field. They put in place:

Speech and language support. Occupational therapy. Social skills groups. And crucially, trained teaching assistants who help children integrate and engage with peers.

Removing this support doesn’t just impact education—it impacts human connection. And that’s where it becomes heartbreaking.

Without EHCPs, we risk isolating children, not just academically, but socially. We risk creating a two-tier system—those who are “able enough” to cope without help, and those who are left behind, forgotten in the noise.

3. Segregation Is a Slippery Slope

When we start removing legal protections and support systems, we slide dangerously close to a world many of us thought we had left behind—a world where difference meant exclusion, where neurodivergence meant institutionalisation.

It wasn’t that long ago that children with autism, ADHD, learning disabilities, and physical differences were placed in asylums or “special schools” hidden from public view, simply for being different. That shameful history should serve as a warning.

To scrap EHCPs is to flirt with that old thinking again. It’s to say, “You don’t belong here. You’re too complicated. You cost too much.”

I refuse to accept that. And I know I’m not alone.

4. This Is Why We Must Speak Up

There is a petition demanding this proposal be rejected. It needs 100,000 signatures to be debated in Parliament—and we are getting closer every day.

Please, if you believe in inclusive education, if you believe every child deserves the right to learn in a way that works for them, sign it:

Sign the Petition Here

We need to send a message loud and clear: Our children are not paperwork to be filed away. They are people. They matter.

Final Thoughts

As a mum, a neurodivergent woman, and someone who advocates daily for inclusion, I will not sit quietly while children’s futures are threatened by cuts disguised as “reform.”

Now is the time to stand together.

Call to Action: If this blog has resonated with you, please like, comment and share. Sign the petition. Talk to your MP. Let’s make sure our children are seen, heard, and supported.

References:

Petition to Stop the Government from Scrapping EHCPs Department for Education: SEND Code of Practice Scope UK: History of Disability Rights and Institutionalisation IPSEA: The Importance of EHCPs in Education NAS: Support for Autistic Children in School Settings

Life-Work Balance: Navigating Business and a Toddler Without Losing My Mind

There are days I ask myself: What on earth was I thinking?

Starting a business while raising a toddler is not for the faint-hearted. In fact, I think it might take a bit of madness, a touch of bravery, and a whole lot of stubbornness. People talk about work-life balance, but when you’ve got a small child under your feet and a to-do list longer than your arm, it’s not work-life balance. It’s life-work chaos, or at best, life-work juggle.

Let’s be honest: toddlers don’t care about deadlines. They don’t understand that you’re on a Zoom call or that your brain is juggling five tasks at once. They want snacks, cuddles, and to be chased around the living room with a hairbrush pretending to be a microphone. And as exhausting as it is, it’s also beautiful—because they are only this small for such a short time.

I used to imagine “balance” meant equal weight on both sides—calm mornings, focused work hours, gentle family dinners. But balance, for me, now looks like replying to emails one-handed while holding a teething toddler. It looks like planning a business strategy at 11pm once she’s finally asleep. It looks like saying no to some things I’d love to do in business, because my little one needs me more.

And that’s why I’ve started calling it life-work balance. Life, for me, will always come first. My family, my child, the moments that pass too quickly to ignore—that’s where I start. The work? It fits around the edges. Sometimes it’s squeezed in during nap time. Other times, it’s done with CBeebies in the background and a toddler climbing my legs.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

There is power in the mess.

I’ve become more focused. More resourceful. More determined. I know what I’m working for. Every late-night planning session and every nap-time brainstorm is driven by a love so fierce it’s unstoppable.

If you’re reading this and you’re in the thick of it too, just know: you are not alone. Whether you’re building a business, going back to work, or simply trying to survive another day of parenting—you’re doing something extraordinary. You’re raising a tiny human while trying to hold onto yourself, your dreams, and your goals. That’s no small feat.

To all the parents trying to do both: let’s stop striving for perfect balance. Let’s embrace the glorious chaos and call it what it is—life-work.

Call to Action:

If this blog spoke to you, please like, comment and subscribe to The Good, The Bad and Your Parenting Journey. Let’s keep lifting each other up. You’re not alone—this community is walking the same wild, wonderful path.

NHS. (2024). Your toddler’s development UK Government. (2023). Flexible working and parental rights Working Families UK. (2024). Support for working parents

How do you balance work and home life?

“Where Are Our Rights?”: The Heartbreak of the Heartbeat Bill and What It Means for Mothers

I saw something on my TikTok FYP today that stopped me in my tracks.

A young woman in Georgia, USA, declared brain-dead at 9 weeks and is currently at at just 21 weeks pregnant. Her family, deep in grief, now forced to keep her body functioning artificially—not for her, but to act as an incubator for the baby growing inside her. She is gone. Her body is being used. The law—the so-called “heartbeat bill”—says she must be kept alive.

This is not a dystopian drama. This is not The Handmaid’s Tale. This is real life. This is happening now.

And it’s nothing short of heartbreaking.

As someone who has walked the path of high-risk pregnancy and who has held space for trauma and grief through the lens of parenthood and loss, I can’t help but feel my stomach turn. This isn’t about the rights of a baby or the value of life—this is about control. About power. About the systemic erasure of the voices and autonomy of women, particularly when those voices fall silent due to tragedy.

I was offered a medical termination in my own pregnancy. We chose not to take it—but that choice was ours. And that’s the point. Choice is everything.

When choice is taken away, human rights are taken away.

Let’s talk about something else. When someone dies—even if they’re a registered organ donor—their organs cannot be harvested without the permission of their family. Consent is still key. So how is it that a woman who is brain-dead—legally deceased—is denied dignity and bodily autonomy if she is pregnant?

Why is a grieving family not allowed to say goodbye in peace?

Why are we treating a woman’s body like public property?

The heartbeat bills passed in various states across the US—including Texas, Georgia, and Ohio—are not protecting life. They are prioritising ideology over individual rights. They are dehumanising women, turning our bodies into battlegrounds, and removing our autonomy, especially in the most traumatic, nuanced and devastating situations.

I may live in the UK, but I used to work on cruise ships. I have many dear friends in the US. I’m a mum. I’m a daughter. I’m someone who believes fiercely in compassion, in consent, and in the fundamental right to decide what happens to our own bodies.

And my heart is breaking for the families impacted by these laws.

Imagine grieving your daughter while being told you have no right to bury her yet. Imagine being the child who grows up knowing their mum died and their body was used, legally, to bring you into the world. What does that do to a child’s mental health? How will they process that trauma?

These laws are not written by women. They’re not shaped by lived experience. They are driven by power structures that increasingly want to strip away women’s rights—not just around reproductive health, but around voting, marriage, and autonomy. Proposals like repealing no-fault divorce and weakening voting rights (as we’ve seen with the SAVE Act) are part of the same pattern: silencing voices that need to be heard.

Let’s be clear—this is not about protecting life. This is about control.

We should all be concerned. Because when one group’s human rights are threatened, everyone’s are. No one should be forced to carry a pregnancy they do not want, or to keep a loved one’s body artificially alive when they are already gone.

This is a plea. A cry. A moment to speak up.

Because if we stay silent, we become part of the problem. And I, for one, will not be quiet.

If this moved you, please like, comment, and subscribe to the blog. Share it with someone who needs to read it. We need to keep talking, keep fighting, and keep holding space for every single voice that these laws try to silence.

References:

American Civil Liberties Union. (2024). Heartbeat Bills and Reproductive Rights BBC News. (2023). US Abortion Laws: What’s Happening and Why It Matters The Guardian. (2024). Family of Brain-Dead Pregnant Woman in Georgia Speaks Out Planned Parenthood. (2024). The Fight for Reproductive Rights NHS Organ Donation. (2024). Consent and Family Override: Understanding the Law in the UK and US Contexts

You Don’t Need a Village — You Need a Town: The Power of Connection in Parenthood

By Laura Johnstone

This morning was one of those where everything felt a little heavy. Amelia had been up just after 5am (a time no human should be upright unless they’re being paid for it), and by the time we were on our way to Grandma and Grandad’s and the Place session, she fell asleep in the buggy. I should have felt relief. But I just felt a little sad.

Sad because the cold I’ve been fighting hasn’t fully shifted. Sad because life’s just been so busy lately that we’ve not been able to go to Hope Hive as much as we used to. And even sadder still because Amelia now goes to crèche two mornings a week, which makes those beautiful community moments feel fewer and further between.

But then — as life often does — something shifted.

On the walk to the train, I bumped into the one and only Rebecca Hope of Hope Hive. I know people say “you don’t need a village, you need a town” — and if that’s the case, Rebecca is the matriarch of mine.

She was on her way to the school where she’s a governor, still giving so much of herself to the community. It was one of those little five-minute chats that leaves your heart a bit fuller and your load a bit lighter. We were saying how much we still love the Hive, and how much it still means to us, even though we’re not there quite as much these days. She reminded me that we’re always welcome, and that they’ll see us Monday (hopefully by then, my cold will have cleared and Amelia won’t catch it!).

Community doesn’t always look like what you expect. It’s not always the neighbour who brings round soup, or the friend who pops in unannounced (though those things are beautiful too). Sometimes it’s the people who build spaces for others, like Rebecca. People who connect mums with other mums, who remember your story, who hold space even when you’re not there every week.

I often hear the phrase “it takes a village to raise a child,” but honestly? I think it takes a town — a whole network of people, places, and pockets of love. And I’m so grateful for the ones who make that town feel like home.

If you’ve got a Rebecca in your life — tell them thank you. If you haven’t yet found your “town,” keep going. They’re out there. And if you’re ever near the Hope Hive, you’ll find a welcome that warms you right to your bones.

If you liked this post, please like and subscribe to my blog for more stories of parenting, prematurity, neurodiversity and finding strength in unexpected places.

Wearing a Legacy: The Rings That Hold Generations of Love

Today’s blog prompt asked, “What’s the oldest item of clothing or accessory you’re wearing?” And honestly, it’s a beautiful question—because what I’m wearing isn’t just jewellery, it’s history. It’s love. It’s family.

On my left hand, I wear my engagement and wedding rings. But they’re not just rings. These are pieces of a love story that started long before mine.

They originally belonged to my mum. I had always adored her engagement ring—it sparkled in a way that made my heart skip even as a child. And when Ryan came into my life, something in her knew. She saw the way he loved me, how safe I felt with him, and one day she simply said, “Please take these if you would like to use them.” She knew—really knew—that he was the one. That’s what made it so special.

Mum no longer wore them because they no longer fit, and she now wears my Nain’s rings. But her gesture wasn’t just about giving me jewellery—it was about passing down a part of her story to become part of mine.

When it came time to make them our own, Ryan worked with Featherstones, a dear friend and talented jeweller, to upgrade the rings with great care. The design was modernised just enough to reflect our style, but the heart of them—the love and memories—remained untouched.

And it doesn’t stop there. Ryan’s wedding ring? It was made from my mum’s original wedding band. Melted down and reshaped into something new, his ring and mine are literally forged from the same gold—a beautiful metaphor for our lives now woven together.

These rings are not just symbols of our wedding day. They’re physical reminders that our love is part of a much bigger picture. Every time I look at my hand, I see my mum, my Nain, and the journey that brought us here.

These moments were captured with tenderness and joy by HJK Photography, whose photos from our wedding day help tell our story in ways words can’t. From our pinky promise to cutting the cake together, each image is filled with emotion and meaning.

Because for me, family means everything. And every piece of this story—these rings, this day, this love—is rooted in that truth.

Call to Action

If you believe in the power of legacy, love, and beautifully told stories through heirloom pieces, I’d love for you to like, comment, and subscribe to follow more stories like this from The Good, The Bad, and Your Parenting Journey.

Let’s continue to honour where we come from, while embracing where we’re going.

Credits & Mentions

Rings lovingly upgraded by: Featherstones Captured with care by: HJK Photography

What’s the oldest things you’re wearing today?

Can I Really Be a Leader If I Keep Losing My Keys?

Some days, I feel unstoppable. I’m full of confidence, I’ve got clarity, and I feel like I’m leading with purpose—whether that’s in my parenting, my advocacy work, or simply being a voice for families who often feel unheard. On days like that, I’d proudly say yes, I’m a leader. I show up, I speak out, I hold space for others. I believe in what I’m doing.

But then there are mornings like today.

This morning, I stood in my hallway, searching frantically for my keys—for the second time this month. Last night, I borrowed my husband’s keys so I could get something from the shed (which, of course, turned out not to be in the shed—it’s in the loft, naturally). I took a torch with me, came back inside, and I clearly remember putting both the torch and the keys on the bookshelf.

And now? The keys have vanished.

I’ve retraced my steps, looked in all the usual hiding places (under piles of books, in coat pockets, behind the nappy bin), and nothing. Just that pit-in-your-stomach feeling of being behind again. Late. Disorganised. Frustrated.

It’s in moments like this that I question myself. How can I call myself a leader if I can’t even keep track of a set of keys?

But then I stop and remember something important: leadership isn’t about being perfect. It’s not about always having your life perfectly together or ticking every box. It’s about getting back up when you feel behind. It’s about learning to laugh (even if a bit bitterly) at your own chaos and showing up anyway.

Yes, I lose keys. Yes, I lose confidence sometimes too. But I also lead when I share these honest truths. I lead when I speak openly about the real messiness of parenting, of neurodivergence, of being human. I lead when I let other people see that it’s OK to have off days and still be someone who inspires others.

So today? Maybe I’m not feeling like a leader. Maybe today, I’m following—letting someone else’s routine guide me, leaning on others for support, and just trying to catch up. And that’s OK.

Tomorrow, the keys might be found. The confidence might come back. And I’ll lead again. Because being a leader doesn’t mean you never fall—it means you always rise.

Call to Action:

Have you had a “lost keys” moment recently—literally or metaphorically? I’d love to hear about it. Leave a comment, share your story, and don’t forget to like and subscribe to follow along with more real-life reflections from the parenting trenches.

Update!!!

Ryan had both sets of keys in his bag. So wasn’t me lol.

Are you a leader or a follower?

When Green Means “Gross!” – Parenting a Selective Eater

By Laura Johnstone

Today’s prompt might be about favourite fruits, but honestly – fruit is not the battle I’m fighting right now.

Right now, it’s green. The colour green. More specifically – anything green on my toddler’s plate.

Our daughter has decided that green is terrifying. Spinach? Launched. Peas? Flicked. Broccoli? Thrown with flair. If it’s green, it’s gone. And every day, we keep trying. Not because we expect her to suddenly fall in love with a leaf of rocket, but because we’re trying to gently desensitise her. We want green to feel less threatening, less yucky, less like an alien species invading her plate.

But here’s the thing. It doesn’t always work. In fact, right now, it never works. And some days, it’s hard not to feel like we’re failing – or that we’re doing something wrong. But we’re not. And neither are you.

Selective eating, especially around colours or textures, is so common in toddlers – and even more so for neurodivergent children. And for neurodivergent parents like us, it can bring back our own memories of food anxiety or sensory overload, making it even harder not to take it personally.

The day she doesn’t throw spinach across the room in disgust will feel like a major win. But until then, we celebrate the tiny victories: sniffing a pea, touching the broccoli, or simply letting something green stay on the plate (instead of the floor).

So if your child is also going through a green-food-phobia (or purple, or mushy, or anything “wet”), you’re not alone. We’re right there with you – one leaf at a time.

Call to Action:

Have you experienced food battles with your little one? What’s their no-go food? Let me know in the comments, and don’t forget to like and subscribe to follow our journey through all the good, the bad, and your parenting journey.

List your top 5 favorite fruits.