Cracked Open: How Life’s Challenges Brought Me Back to My Self (Part 1)

Have you ever felt completely lost—like life was tearing you apart, only to later realise it was actually pulling you back to yourself? 

I have. 

This is not a story of blame or regret. This is my truth - the raw, unfiltered journey of everything I’ve endured, the pain that nearly broke me, and the lessons that ultimately saved me. At times, it felt like life was working against me. But now, I see it was all guiding me home - to a deeper understanding of who I truly am. 

I believe we are all here for one reason: to remember what we have forgotten. To wake up to the truth of who we are. And while our paths may look different, I know that in some way, we are all walking each other home. 

If you’ve ever felt alone in your struggles, if you’ve ever questioned your place in this world - this story is for you. Because I know now, more than ever, that none of us are truly separate. We are connected in ways the mind often forgets but the heart always knows. 

So, I invite you into my story. Not just to read it - but to feel it. Because maybe, just maybe, you’ll see a piece of yourself in these words. 

Every story has a beginning, and mine starts in a quiet little village tucked away in the rolling green hills of the Welsh countryside. 

Just a few miles from the picturesque town of Llangollen, I grew up in a home filled with both love and chaos - the second eldest of five siblings in a household that was never short of noise, laughter, and the occasional sibling rivalry. My parents have been together for as long as I can remember, and even now, through life’s many twists and turns, they remain by each other’s side. 

I still live in the very same childhood home, though life within its walls has changed. My dad now cares for my mum, who has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, a reality none of us could have fully prepared for. It’s a heartbreaking shift - watching the person who once took care of me slowly fade into someone who needs my care in return. 

With four siblings close in age, our home has always been full - sometimes too full. Growing up, there was little space for solitude or deep reflection, which is why now, more than ever, I treasure the places that give me room to just be. My studio space is my sanctuary, a place where I can retreat into my own energy, and my little camper van has become an escape - a tiny, rolling refuge where I can explore both the world around me and the depths of who I am. 

And then, there is nature. 

Nature has been my quiet companion through it all. In my happiest moments, it has amplified my joy, and in my darkest times, it has held me - offering comfort, safety, and a kind of healing that words often fail to express. 

This is where my story begins. Not just in a house or a village, but in the spaces that have shaped me, the people who have stood beside me, and the quiet places where I have slowly uncovered who I truly am. 

Growing up in a house full of siblings was anything but quiet, but for me, it often felt lonely in ways I struggled to put into words. 

There were moments of joy, of course - memories that still bring a smile to my face - but beneath it all, I carried a weight I didn’t fully understand at the time. Deep down, I often felt invisible, unheard, and profoundly unwanted. It wasn’t just a fleeting feeling; it was something that settled deep within me, shaping the way I saw myself and my place in the world. 

I know my parents did the best they could with what they knew. I don’t believe they set out to hurt me or my siblings intentionally. But understanding their limitations doesn’t erase the pain I felt - it doesn’t rewrite the past or undo the emotional wounds that lingered long after childhood. 

Some memories are etched so deeply into me that no amount of time can erase them. I remember my mum recounting stories of her pregnancies, casually mentioning how my dad would joke that she should “chuck us in the bin.” Even as a child, I knew those words weren’t meant to be taken literally - but that didn’t soften the blow. And as if to drive the point home, my dad would double down, laughing as he told us that without us, he could have had "so much money, a massive house, and multiple Ferraris." 

I know he thought it was funny. But to a child yearning for love and reassurance, those words weren’t a joke - they were confirmation of what I had feared all along. That I was a burden. That I was never truly wanted. 

Words have power. Even the ones spoken in passing, the ones meant to be harmless, the ones wrapped in laughter. And those words, spoken again and again, shaped me in ways I wouldn’t fully understand until much later. 

The first time I remember feeling abandoned, I was only three years old.

It happened on what should have been a simple, ordinary day - our school photo day at playgroup. I remember standing there, watching as my mum placed my two siblings together for a picture, then turned to position me on my own. A small, seemingly insignificant decision. But to me, it felt like a quiet confirmation of something much bigger: You don’t belong. 

I remember the ache in my chest, the weight of isolation settling in even at that young age. I wanted her to see me - not just look at me, but really see me. To notice the sadness in my eyes, to sense the loneliness curling around me like a shadow. But she didn’t. Instead, she simply told me to smile. The woman behind the camera echoed the same instruction. Smile for the picture. But inside, I felt like disappearing. 

That photo still exists. And when I look at it, I see more than just a little girl. I see a child carrying emotions too big for her small body, a child who had no way to process the overwhelming feelings of rejection and loneliness. That moment didn’t just pass - it stayed, freezing inside me, lodging itself deep into my nervous system. 

My young brain, unable to understand or cope, did what it had to do to protect me: it shut down. This became my survival pattern. Anytime I felt unsafe - whether emotionally or physically - I froze. My body would go numb, my mind would go blank, and even if someone simply looked at me and said my name, I could barely string a sentence together. 

I didn’t understand it back then. I only knew that something about me felt wrong. That I was somehow broken. And that belief only deepened as the years went on - reinforced by every moment I was shamed, blamed, rejected, or misunderstood simply for feeling the way I felt. 

Bessel van der Kolk once said, “Trauma is when we are not seen and known.” 

And in that small, frozen moment at just three years old, I knew exactly what that meant - even if I couldn’t yet put it into words. 

As children, we see our parents as gods - omniscient, infallible, the ultimate authority on what is right and wrong. Their words don’t just shape our world; they define it. If they say you’re bad, selfish, or unworthy, then it must be true. If they withhold love, then surely, you must not deserve it. 

This was the reality I lived in. 

Unlike my siblings, I felt the weight of my parents' disapproval in a way that seemed uniquely heavy. It was as if I was marked, singled out, the one who always carried the blame. If something went missing - food, money, anything - it was immediately assumed that I had stolen it. I became “the selfish one,” “the sneaky one,” “the deceitful one.” If one of my siblings was upset, the conclusion was always the same: It must be Darcia’s fault. She’s the nasty, bullying one. 

Over time, these labels weren’t just things they said to me - they became things I believed about me. I absorbed their judgments until they felt like an undeniable truth buried deep inside my bones. I carried a constant, gnawing shame, convinced that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, something broken at my core that made me unworthy of love. 

But even as I internalized their words, somewhere deep inside, a part of me resisted. A quiet, almost imperceptible voice whispered that this wasn’t the whole truth. That there was more to my story than the role I had been forced to play. 

It wasn’t until years later, through therapy, somatic healing, meditation, and deep self-exploration, that I began to understand: my parents weren’t all-knowing gods. They were deeply wounded people, carrying unprocessed traumas of their own. And because they hadn’t done the work to heal, they unconsciously - and at times, consciously - projected their pain onto us. 

I see that now. But back then, all I saw was the blame. All I felt was the shame. And all I wanted was to be loved in the way I had always longed for. 

There were moments when I felt like I was drowning in a storm I couldn’t escape - trapped in a cycle of confusion, self-doubt, and unbearable pain. The weight of everything I had suppressed for so long felt suffocating, pressing down on me until I questioned whether I even wanted to exist at all. I longed for someone – anyone - to truly see me, to hold space for the chaos inside me, to tell me that I wasn’t alone. But time and time again, I was met with silence. I felt like no one was there. No one truly cared. 

So, I learned to wear a mask. I carried my pain quietly, burying it so deep inside that even I began to forget it was there. But pain has a way of demanding to be felt, and no matter how hard I tried to outrun it, it always found me.  

And yet - somewhere deep within me, beneath all the wounds and the heartache, there was a small but undeniable knowing: This is happening for me. This is shaping me into the person I am meant to become. 

And now, here I stand. Not as someone untouched by pain, but as someone transformed by it. Every wound, every dark moment, every unbearable night has become a stepping stone leading me toward something greater. Towards healing and towards purpose. What once felt like pure suffering has now become my fuel, my fire - igniting a passion within me to help others navigate their own darkness, to guide them toward healing, and to remind them that they are never truly alone. 

I share my story not just to release what I’ve carried, but to remind you - you are not alone in your pain.  

I now understand that healing isn’t just about me - it’s about us. It’s a collective journey, one that binds us together in our shared struggles, in our longing for wholeness and authenticity. And when we finally embrace our pain instead of running from it, we unlock its hidden gift: the power to heal not just ourselves, but each other. 

Because pain, when met with love and understanding, doesn’t have to be the end of our story. 

It can be the beginning of something beautiful. 

And because maybe - just maybe - our pain was never meant to break us. 

Maybe it was meant to set us free. 

“Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.” 

~ Rumi

Part 2 coming soon…