Camping With My Brilliant Resilient Girl

I’ve just been camping with my strong, amazing, resilient, brilliant daughter.
(Huge tent we put up between us - kids dog and a Bestie, camping magic)
My daughter who now has an autoimmune condition because of her PMDD treatment. My daughter who has PMDD because NHS doctors didn’t listen, didn’t follow up after chemical menopause, didn’t take her seriously. My daughter who lost half her life to PMDD — sixteen years of it — only to then be pushed into a lifelong thyroid condition on top.
And yet there she was, camping, taking me with her, laughing, living, carrying on with that stubborn spark she’s always had, even while she’s completely exhausted from fighting her insides and her outside.
While we were away, we kept seeing these really elderly women — the kind who shuffle along with their families, wrapped in blankets, being gently guided. Or in this lady’s case: a proper old bird, nails painted, dapper outfit, bold jewels, a teenager on either side, complete with stick and smiles, cocking her leg over a bench for coffee.
I could feel my daughter’s thought bubble bouncing.
Then she said she can’t wait until I’m that old and not strong, so she can drag me everywhere.
I looked at her and said absolutely not. She laughed and said, “You won’t be that strong eventually, so I’ll be taking you everywhere — with my then grown‑teenage kids, the dog, and you.”
As lovely as that is, I thought: please don’t.
I just want to be in my garden. A traditional country garden. My door in the middle, two rooms, one cup on a plate, watching the birds and the bees. Pottering. Maybe even getting my frippery back out when my brain can finally hold it again.
This is the balanced scale of ND, AuDHD, motherhood, and midlife. I love that she wants to take me everywhere. I love that she imagines a future where she still wants me right beside her.
A peaceful, quiet life calls to me. I’ve given a lot of love to a lot of people. And love — as much as you love it — hurts.
The Elephant in the Bath — the front cover of a book I read to her when she was five. And as the author said… five minutes’ peace.

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