I know, I know. I haven’t written in a while. (Shhhh, we all know it’s been a year) I always say that, don’t I? But I genuinely think, and I hope you know that I’m someone who only writes when I have something to say. And right now, I have something to say. I have had a wholesome mum friend filled weekend and my thought process has taken me into writing the next 56,000 words (exaggeration, please do read on). I do apologise in advance. Please feel free to completely ignore, scroll past or exit out of this blog post…

I’m in a rather strange period of my life. Some things are making sense, other things are absolutely not, and I’m beginning to realise that perhaps being in your thirties is less about having everything figured out and more about becoming increasingly comfortable with the fact that you haven’t.

One thing I’ve noticed recently is just how different my life looks compared to some of the people closest to me. Apart from some very special people in my life, who deserve an entire blog post of their own, almost all of my closest people are mums.

Mums. Actual mums. With children. Little humans who depend on them for pretty much everything.

And I am in absolute awe of them.

I don’t think we talk enough about how incredible women are when they become mothers. Not in the Instagram-perfect, matching-outfits, beautifully curated family photograph sort of way. I mean the real stuff. The midnight feeds. The sleepless nights. The mental load. The constant worrying. The days when you’re running on approximately three hours of sleep and a coffee that has been reheated four times, yet somehow you’re still managing to keep another human alive, happy and loved.

It’s HARD. And I don’t think we acknowledge that enough.

I look at my friends, my family, and especially my sister, and I am genuinely blown away by what they do every single day. My sister is an incredible mum, and I am so ridiculously obsessed with my nephew that I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ll ever love another human being quite as much. It’s probably an unreasonable amount of love for one tiny person, but here we are.

I watch these women navigate motherhood, relationships, work, friendships, their own identities and everything else that life throws at them, and I just think: HOW?

How are you doing all of this?

How are you showing up for everyone when you’re probably running on empty yourself?

How are you remembering the nursery bags, the appointments, the feeds, the clothes, the snacks, the things nobody else even thinks about?

And how are you still managing to be my friend?

I want to shout about them. I want to tell everyone how brilliant they are. I want them to know that I see them, that I notice the things they do and that I am so incredibly proud of them.

But there’s another part of this that I’ve been sitting with for a while.

Because, whilst I am surrounded by these women doing the most extraordinary things, I’m also trying to work out whether I actually want any of it myself.

And that’s a slightly uncomfortable thing to admit.

I’ve always thought I’d be a mum. In fact, for as long as I can remember, I think I’ve considered it my ultimate goal in life. It was just something I assumed would happen. Not necessarily something I’d questioned, but something that had always been part of the picture I’d painted for myself.

And somewhere along the way, that certainty has shifted.

I’m 32. I’m dating. I’m still hoping to find my person. I’m renovating my bloody flat, trying to keep my mental health in check and generally attempting to navigate adulthood without feeling like I’m constantly winging it.

Some days I feel like I’ve got a reasonable handle on things. Other days, one minor inconvenience can send me into an existential crisis.

And somewhere in amongst all of that, there’s this enormous question mark over children.

Do I want them?

I genuinely don’t know.

And perhaps that’s the bit I’ve found hardest to come to terms with. Because when something has always felt like your ultimate goal, it’s quite strange to reach a point where you’re no longer entirely sure it’s what you want.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt particularly comfortable admitting that because it feels like something you’re supposed to know by now. Especially as a woman in your thirties. There’s an unspoken expectation that you should have a fairly clear idea of what you want your future to look like. You should be dating with intention, thinking about timelines, considering the next steps and generally getting your ducks in a row.

Except my ducks are absolutely nowhere near being in a row.

I know that if I met the right person, someone who made me feel safe, supported and loved, I could one thousand percent see that future. I know I’m capable of loving fiercely. I know what a wonderful thing it can be to have children in your life.

But I also know how hard motherhood is.

And perhaps watching the women I love navigate it so brilliantly has made me more aware of that than ever.

I don’t look at them and think I couldn’t do it. I look at them and think, bloody hell, that’s a lot. I have so much respect for them, and sometimes I wonder whether I could ever match the strength, patience and resilience they seem to find in themselves every single day.

Perhaps that’s part of what I’ve been struggling with. Not necessarily the idea of having children, but the enormity of what that decision actually means.

And I think it’s okay to say that.

It’s okay to be 32 and not know. It’s okay to be dating and still be unsure about whether you want a family. It’s okay to look at your future and see several different possibilities rather than one clearly defined picture.

It’s also okay to love your friends’ children, your nephew, with every fibre of your being and still not know whether you want your own.

Both things can exist at the same time.

I think there’s something quite strange about being in your thirties and watching so many people around you move into a stage of life that you don’t necessarily feel ready for. One minute you’re all going out, making questionable decisions, laughing about ridiculous things and wondering what you’ll do at the weekend. The next, you’re discussing sleep regressions, nursery arrangements and whether someone has remembered to bring the spare clothes.

And whilst I am absolutely here for it, there are moments when I look around and think, are we actually old enough for this?

Because I certainly don’t feel old enough.

There is still a part of me that feels like a child myself. A part that wants to be spontaneous, make mistakes, stay out too late, spend an entire Sunday doing absolutely nothing and occasionally be looked after rather than being responsible for anyone else.

I don’t necessarily want to rush through that part of my life.

And I don’t think I should have to.

I also want to acknowledge that my mental health has taken up a huge amount of space in my life recently. Big life changes have a way of doing that. Even seemingly exciting things, like renovating a flat, or navigating a bloody intense job can become overwhelming when you’re already trying to keep your head above water.

Some days, simply looking after myself feels like enough of an achievement.

And I think that’s another reason why I want to be honest about where I am. Because the idea of adding another enormous responsibility to my life is something I will (in the bloody future) need to think about carefully, not just because it’s what people traditionally do next.

I want to make decisions because I genuinely want to make them. Not because I’m in my thirties, not because my friends are having babies and not because I feel like I’m running out of time to catch up with some imaginary version of adulthood.

Which brings me back to the mums.

Because whilst I’m figuring all of this out, I want them to know how much I love them. How much I admire them. And how much I want to be there for them.

I want to be the friend who turns up. The auntie who gets ridiculously excited about every milestone. The person who offers to help, listens when things are difficult and reminds them that they’re doing an incredible job, even when they don’t feel like they are.

I want to make their lives a little easier wherever I can. I want to celebrate their children, their achievements and the women they are becoming.

But I also want us to cut mums some slack.

I want us to stop expecting them to do everything, all the time, without complaint. I want us to recognise that motherhood doesn’t mean someone suddenly stops needing friendship, support, patience, understanding or a life outside their children.

They are still women. Still our friends. Still our sisters, daughters and people with their own hopes, anxieties, ambitions and struggles.

And sometimes they need someone to look after them, too.

I don’t think we should need to become mothers ourselves to understand how much these women deserve our admiration.

And equally, I don’t think we should need to become mothers to feel like we’re moving forward in life.

Perhaps that’s the bit I really want to get across.

There are women in their thirties who are mothers, women who desperately want to be mothers, women who aren’t sure, women who know they don’t want children and women who are somewhere in between. There are women falling in love, falling out of love, starting over, buying houses, travelling, changing careers, looking after their mental health and simply trying to work out what makes them happy.

None of these journeys is more or less valid than another.

I don’t want to feel behind. And I don’t want other women to feel that way either.

I want to celebrate the women who are raising little humans whilst also celebrating the women who are still working out what they want their lives to look like.

I want to celebrate the ones who are doing the midnight feeds and the ones who are having an existential crisis at midnight. The ones packing school lunches and the ones who still haven’t quite mastered feeding themselves properly. The ones who know exactly what they want and the ones who change their minds every other Tuesday.

We’re all figuring it out.

And perhaps that’s the point.

I don’t know what my future looks like. I don’t know whether I’ll have children, whether I’ll meet someone who makes that decision feel right, or whether my life will take a completely different direction.

What I do know is that I have some extraordinary women around me. Women who are doing some of the hardest, most important work imaginable, often without anywhere near enough recognition.

I love them. I’m proud of them. I’m in awe of them.

And I hope they know that I’ll always be in their corner, cheering them on, helping wherever I can and probably being an entirely overenthusiastic auntie along the way.

But for now, I’m also going to give myself a little bit of grace.

I’m 32. I’m still figuring it out. I’m still allowed to be a little bit selfish, a little bit uncertain and a little bit of a kid myself.

And that’s okay.

A love letter to the mums, then. But also to the women who haven’t quite worked it out yet.

We’re doing alright, aren’t we?

Hang in there.

Ellen on the Edge xx

When I was approaching 30, I had all these big expectations in my head. Thirty was supposed to be the golden year—the one where everything fell into place, the one I’d always look back on and say that was it, that was when I really came into myself. I imagined confidence, clarity, and a sense of finally being settled into who I was meant to be.

Instead, 30 ended up breaking me down in ways I didn’t see coming.

I don’t need to spell it all out, but there were hard moments. Losses that left me feeling hollow. Health struggles that made me question my strength. A sense of watching the life I’d carefully pictured slip through my fingers no matter how tightly I tried to hold on. There were days I felt like I was just moving through the motions, carrying around a version of myself that didn’t feel quite whole anymore. For a long time, I thought I’d wasted my milestone year.

But here I am, 31. And strangely enough, I feel lighter. Not because everything is perfect—far from it—but because I’ve realized that life doesn’t wait for “perfect.” Growth doesn’t happen in polished moments. It happens in the cracks, in the rebuilding, in the quiet choices you make to keep moving forward. And even through the chaos, one thing I’m deeply grateful for is that my mental health—something I’ve often braced myself to struggle with—remained steady, almost surprisingly so. That stability has been an anchor when so much else felt uncertain.

This year feels different. I’m laying foundations that feel steadier than before, creating a space in my life that feels solid and true. I’m opening myself up to new connections, new possibilities, and new versions of love—whatever shape they may take. I’m making room for joy again, even in small ways, and learning that strength can look a lot like softness, too.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m stepping into empowerment rather than just chasing it. There’s a calmness in me now, a quiet confidence that I earned the hard way.

31 isn’t about the big expectations I once had—it’s about resilience, courage, and a kind of quiet strength I didn’t know I was capable of. I’m walking into this chapter with scars, yes. But also with clearer eyes, a steadier heart, and a home— with some luck, both literal and metaphorical—that I’m finally building for myself.

Here’s to 31. Not the year I planned, but maybe, just maybe, the year I’ve been waiting for.

Hang in there.

Ellen on the Edge x