Even in the depths of exhaustion — after a sleepless night, high stress, and a body running on fumes — I found myself making choices I’m proud of.

I considered my options. I stayed honest. I reached for help.

Not from desperation, but from grounded self-awareness.

I knew that asking my son’s mum would give me the best chance to truly recover. A whole evening off — space to rest not just physically, but emotionally. And that’s what I need most. That’s what allows me to be present for him when I’m back.

If she can help, that’s ideal. And if not, I have another option — a friend I trust, someone who might say yes, even if I can’t return the favour right now. I’d still carry some responsibility in that setup, still be thinking about Vic, but it would be enough of a lift to get me through the day with a bit more grace.

And if neither of them can help — then I’ll do what I’ve always done. I’ll show up. I’ll get through it. I’ll find a way.

But what’s changed — what really matters — is that I didn’t go straight into lone-wolf mode. I didn’t shut down, or pretend I was fine, or grit my teeth through another silent collapse.

I paused. I considered. I asked.

And in that moment, I realised something else:

I may not have a village yet…
but I do have some people that care.

That means something.
It means I’m not as alone as I used to feel.
It means I’m becoming someone who can receive help — not just give it.

And maybe, just maybe, this is how a village begins.