When You’re Scared - but Still Have to Be the Strong One

Reflections for any parent who has to be stronger than they feel - and ever waited, worried, and held too much (no religion needed). St Christopher's Chapel, Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, London.

I cried as she went through the door to the operating theatre.

I'd thought I was ready. I'd read everything, understood the process, explained it to her in words a young child could grasp. But there's a universe of difference between knowing how anaesthetic works and watching your child's eyes flutter closed while you stand there, useless, handing her over to strangers.

The nurse directed me back to the ward. Hours to wait. Other sick children. Other exhausted parents. The particular smell of hospital disinfectant, anxiety and fear in a nauseating, but oh so familiar, blend.

I went to the Chapel instead. I am not an especially religious person but I do have a faith and I do like to connect myself with people, locations and experiences that broaden me out from my day to day existence.

As I walked in I was struck by the serenity and emotion of the place. I read the visitor book, I looked at the wishing tree, I read the notes on the teddies and soft toys that had been left and allowed myself to wallow in the experience.

I felt sad. So many people had experienced such hard things.

I felt joyful. So many others had experienced amazing things.

I felt peaceful. The calm of the place was palpable.

I felt connected. There were others like me. I was not alone.

I felt isolated. I was one of so many who were going through challenging times – and many so, so much harder than mine.

I felt supported. I knew there were others who would be thinking the same as me and wishing others well, even if we didn’t know each other.

I felt invigorated. I knew there was so much medical progress that had been made since the Chapel had been created.

I felt hopeful. Good things always happened, even if alongside the bad.

I left the Chapel before they called me back to recovery. My daughter would wake up confused and wanting me, and I'd need to be the calm, capable parent again.

But something had shifted. I'd admitted, at least to myself, how hard this was – and there was peace in that acknowledgment. I'd found hope in the wishing tree's ribbons and calm in the quiet pews. I'd allowed myself tears without apology, and somehow, in reading about other families' darkest and brightest moments, I'd tapped into something sustaining.

If you're in a similar place – waiting, worrying, wondering – here’s what the day in the Chapel taught me:

·       Admit that it’s hard. It will bring you peace.

·       Find hope where you can. It will bring perspective.

·       Find calm where you can. It will bring you balance.

·       Allow yourself tears if you need them. It will bring you relief.

·       Tap into good emotions when you can. It will bring you joy in small moments.

My daughter woke up perfectly (even if seeing a few flying motorbikes!). Not all days end that way, but all days need us to show up for them whole – which means allowing ourselves to feel everything, not just the brave bits.