Recently, I caught up with two dear friends at a local café. You know the kind one where the tea flows, the laughs are loud, and the conversations get deep without even meaning to.

As we were chatting through all the updates; life, family, business, the book one of them asked the inevitable:

“How do you manage to do it all?”

Honestly? Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I wing it. Sometimes I want to crawl into bed and let the group chats keep moving without me.

But lately, I’ve made a few small shifts that have helped. Nothing revolutionary. Just intentional.; rising an hour and a half earlier to work on my book. It’s me, bed hair and all, with a cup of tea and a blinking cursor. I’ve also cut sugar out of my endless cups of tea (RIP, sweet milky brew) to keep my energy steady through long workdays, family life, and the emotional labour of writing the thing I’m writing.

Because right now, I’m knee-deep in writing my book:
Where the Waves Break: How I Overcame Tragedy, and You Can Too.

It’s not fiction.
I wish it were.
But it’s mine and it’s real. And some days, it hurts like hell to write it.

This narrative, stemming from my own experiences and personal journey, unfolds swiftly without the need to conjure fictional characters and plots. It's a reflection of my reality.

When I look back on those years, the grief, the shock, the deep dysfunction and I find myself drowning in the hindsight spiral.

You know the one.
The could haves.
The should haves.
The why didn’t we’s.

It’s been a decade, but writing it all down brings it back like it was yesterday.

Despite all the healing I’ve done and there has been so much, I still find myself getting knocked sideways by a photo, a sentence, a memory. My nervous system flinches. My breath catches. It’s like I’ve opened the door to a room I didn’t know still held so much noise. As I note down these memories to paper, the weight of the past is daunting, often triggering a sense of post-traumatic stress despite feeling comfortable and confident in my healing journey.

And the thing is, I have found meaning in the pain.
I’ve built a business rooted in healing.
I’ve supported others in finding their peace.
But some parts of grief don’t dissolve. They just soften… until you prod them.

Although I've rationalized and found the silver linings amidst the pain, the longing for what was lost remains. The grief, once suffocating and all-encompassing, now resurfaces as I document each chapter, which is to say, each memory, each pain, each shock and each blow. Juggling the demands of work, business growth, parenthood, and marriage means a slow, deliberate, mindful approach.

While discussing these feeling with my two friends at that cafe (the same two friends that came to my side late that same night of dad’s sudden death), I spoke of the profound impact on my family and with me so eloquently saying “I forgot just how fucked up that whole time was.”

We laughed, not because it’s funny. But because sometimes that’s all you can do.
Laugh. Swear. Sip your tea.
And keep going.

Not everything will end up in the book. Some moments are just for us, my family and me. But enough will be there to hold space for those who are walking their own version of it.

We all agreed: if sharing the truth can help even one family avoid the same spiral, it’s worth it.

The discomfort of vulnerability is a tiny price to pay if it helps someone else break their own generational pattern. Or get support. Or just feel seen.

There have already been enough sacrifices.
This book is part of the healing.

If you want to hear more about how I’m navigating this chapter, the writing, the grief, the juggle and MY story. I shared more on the podcast here:

🎧 Episode 1 – When Love Remains: A Father's Final Lesson

An Exercise for You: The “Hindsight Cleanse”

If you’ve been haunted by your own could’ve/should’ve spiral lately, here’s something that might help.

Grab a notebook (or open your notes app, no pressure) and try this:

Write down the memory that keeps looping.
Just one. Don’t unpack your whole past. Pick the one that’s shouting the loudest today.
List the “should haves” that come with it.
Let them out. Unfiltered.
Now write a line underneath that says:
“I was doing the best I could, with what I knew, with what I had, at the time.”
Breathe. Read it back to yourself. Then write:
“And now I choose to meet myself with grace.”

It’s simple. It’s not a miracle. But it’s something. And sometimes “something” is what gets you through to the next good moment.

The truth is, hindsight has its place. But it’s not the place where you live.
It’s not where your joy lives.
It’s not where your future is being built.

So to hindsight, I say:
Thanks for the lesson. But you can get stuffed.

You’ve got more important places to be.

With love, realness, and tea that now tastes slightly disappointing without sugar.

Update: The book is now available!

If this story resonated with you, if you’ve ever felt consumed by hindsight, stuck in grief, or unsure how to move forward after life cracked open, I wrote this book for you.

Where the Waves Break: How I Overcame Tragedy, and You Can Too is now available.
It’s raw, real, and deeply hopeful, a story of heartbreak, healing, and the power of choosing to come home to yourself.

You can order your copy here:
Where The Waves Break

I hope it meets you exactly where you are and reminds you that you’re never alone in the messy middle of it all.

Gayle x