“You’re a companion to books in cosy nooks, you’re the ritual that reminds me, that a new page starts with you”

When I was 17, I had a weekend job at Starbucks, where I frothed milk alongside some of the best friends I’ve ever had. Later, when I was an actor, I worked at a busy Starbucks in Manchester in-between filming.

My relationship with coffee was a mixed one back then. Although I really enjoyed drinking it, the association became somewhat tarnished.

Firstly - it was a painful reminder that I wasn’t acting. Then, there were the early starts, commuting into the dark city to make coffee for strangers (Frappuccino’s were the bane of my life!). At the end of the day I’d hop straight into the shower to rinse the smell of old coffee beans out of my hair. Then there was the envy I felt watching customers sip and savour their coffee with friends while I worked flat out behind the counter!

It’s surprising, then, that coffee is still my favourite drink and a powerful support system that has held me together throughout the years.

To me, the smell and taste of coffee have always signalled hope and fresh beginnings. I can almost feel the positivity and determination for the day ahead brewing as I prepare my first cup.

And then there’s the connection. Coffee has a way of bringing together friends, family and loved ones over a drink that is enjoyed all over the world.

Now as a full-time working mother of two very energic little boys, coffee has evolved into a way of carving out precious time to rest and reflect - of realigning myself when my identify feels woolly.

Coffee reminds me of who I am and the person I am driven to be and this poem celebrates my relationship with a drink that has always been so much more than just coffee…

No Just Coffee

You’re not just coffee.

You’re waking with the birds.
You’re sunlight filtered 
through kitchen windows;
the promise of a new day,
with endless possibilities.

You’re heated hands,
and chats with friends,
you’re the pick me up 
in an afternoon slump.

You’re the smell that wafts 
through hotel lobbies,
the freshly ground sound,
more powerful than any alarm.

You’re a companion to books in cosy nooks,
you’re the ritual that reminds me,
that a new page starts with you,
like the scent of a sharpened pencil
on fresh paper.

You’re the slow press of a cafetiere,
a slice of time reserved for me
to anticipate the first molten drop
that no other can compete with.

You’re not just coffee,
you’re hope for a second chance;
a reminder that I’ve woken again,
and life is good.

-	Lucie Sweeney 

‘Remember, her baby has a million hands and hearts to cradle them, but she only has her own’

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on being a mother, without my own by my side and how this shaped my experience of mothering – especially in those early weeks and months after giving birth.

Despite enduring birth trauma that left me unable to sit and a painstaking breastfeeding journey, what I missed most wasn’t the practical or physical support (though I know she would have given that too). It was the unique kind of emotional support that only my mum could offer. I needed to be held, nurtured – mothered and I never fully recognised that at the time.

Becoming a mother highlighted the absence of my own maternal figure in ways I didn’t anticipate. The raw emotions that surfaced, the reopening of grief and the confusion of transitioning from daughter who is mothered, to mother who mothers. I felt her absence acutely in every single moment.

Although I was incredibly fortunate to have my wonderful husband advocating for me every step of the way and a family who deeply cared for me and my baby, the void left by my mother was one no one could fill.

A new report from charity has revealed the hidden crisis of mothering without a mother, sharing that 85% of mothers say that the transition into motherhood re-triggers trauma from their own maternal loss; that 95% experience profound loneliness during pregnancy and early motherhood and that motherless mothers are 3 times more likely to experience postnatal depression than the national average. This includes motherless mothers through loss, illness, estrangement or Dementia.

The work of this incredible charity is finally shining a spotlight on an issue that has been overlooked and under researched; and I have found this incredibly validating.

Below is a poem I wrote, emphasising the importance of checking in with motherless mothers – even when things look ok. To support them both practically and more importantly – emotionally. For it is likely that they will be experiencing a plethora of complex feelings in addition to remerging grief and trauma.

Hold The Mother

Before you hold the baby,
be sure to hold the mother.

Stock her freezer with home-made goods,
carefully portioned and labelled,
so when she reaches for the ice-cold promise of food,
her tired brain knows what to choose.

Make her Weetabix with warm milk,
if that’s what she craves,
ask her how she is,
day after day,
even when she smiles,
again and again,
for days can change
and quickly sour,
like the milk on her nightdress.

Remember,
her baby has a million hands
and hearts to cradle them,
but she only has her own.

Offer to change her newborn,
tenderly and with care,
to spare her aching spine.

Tidy up,
but don’t overdo,
to the point where she feels 
ashamed of the view.

Hold her baby,
like the rarest flower – 
but keep them close.
She needs them to breathe,
now her lungs are entwined with theirs;
the umbilical cord was only cut with scissors.

Only share opinions that are invited,
for others may catch in the cracks at night,
when she wonders if she’s mothering right.

Make her a cup of tea,
for tea carries a signal of rest.
Then make her another one,
steaming hot,
so she can sip in peace,
and stare at the garden,
watching the Robin
and wondering if he was sent from heaven
by her mother, 
to sing her grandchild to sleep –
crossing worlds to reach the tiny
shell of their ears through song.

Hold the mother 
as much as her baby,
if not more.

She is also newly born into a world,
that has irrevocably changed.
Hold her as she takes her first breath – 
steady her as she learns how to walk.

Before you hold the baby,
be sure to hold the mother.


Lucie Sweeney

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‘ Small chest rising, in time with my heart. I surrender to time. This moment is timeless’.

This poem came to me after a particularly challenging day of mothering – you know, the one where you are pushed and pulled to your limits like an elastic band.

When little heads clash with your own and you struggle to regulate your emotions, let alone co-regulate theirs!

That peaceful moment after they drift off to sleep and look like sleeping angels – lit by the glow of the moon or the night light they’ve had since being a baby.

I wrote this in my head whilst watching my little boy sleep.

Suddenly, the tears and frustration of the day melted away in the silence of the night and I was left gazing at him in complete awe and wonder.

Body and mind completed surrendered. The housework, unfinished jobs, stresses of the day – just became – unimportant in that moment. And it inspired this poem…

Surrender

Lying next to you,
watching your eyelids flutter,
slipping into sleep,
the curve of your cupid lips,
the arch of your sweeping lashes.

I surrender.

Small chest rising,
in time with my heart.
I surrender to time.
This moment is timeless.

Farm animal quilt,
warm as toast.
Pink cheeks outlined,
by the soft glow of the nightlight.
I surrender to you.

Allowing myself to marvel,
breathe in your sweetness.
The days dirty laundry,
left at the door.

Piles of meltdowns, arguments,
outbursts where wants and needs,
are responded with ‘no’,
dissolve into the night.

Nothing exists,
in this precious moment with you,
my sleeping babe.

I surrender.


Lucie Sweeney

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‘Go easy on the mothers, without mothers. They’re sometimes made of glass’

My mother passed away suddenly when I was 31.

Three years later, I gave birth to my first baby and grief took on a whole new form.

The birth was traumatic, ending in a series of medical interventions that left me with birth injuries that took over a year to heal. My baby was also poorly and we remained (separated) in hospital for 11 days.

I felt like a child – vulnerable, weak, poorly. I needed my mother – to nurse me physically and emotionally like she always had whenever life became dark. But she wasn’t there.

And the ‘needing’ hasn’t gone away. It re-emerges daily, sometimes in subtle, barely noticeable ways.

In the early days, I needed her when my breastfeeding journey almost broke me – I needed her to tell me it’s ok to use formula milk – to reassure me that I thrived on formula as a baby – that it’s ok.

I needed her to sit with me in my lounge and cuddle my baby, while I recovered on the sofa. Close enough for me to see him, hear him (that part was important).

I needed her to ring me, text me to see how I am – to deeply care about the response and to listen until I no longer wanted to speak.

I needed her to tell me I’m a good mother – that she’s proud of me. That my baby is doing well in my care.

And in the later years, I needed her to see in my little boys, the quirks and special qualities that she always picked up on in children (it was her gift).

I needed her to defend them when they made the wrong choice at school or at home – to advocate for the shining souls that they are.

And then there are the unexpected ripples of grief that appear when the sea is calm: when I see her expression in the faces of my children. When they race over to tell me the Blackbird is here and I know she would have smiled.

When I see another mother my own age, chatting with her mother over a cup of tea in Marks & Spencer’s, peeping over the pram and debating sleep schedules.

I wrote this poem, as a reminder, a gentle nudge, to care for and support mothers without mothers – because for me – it has been the hardest part of loss.

Mothers Without Mothers

Go easy on the mothers,
without mothers.
They’re sometimes made of glass - 
easily shattered by well-intended words,
yet no mother, 
to glue them back together.

Be kind to the mother,
without a mother.
She’s unmoored - 
lighthouse gone,
bobbing along through dark nights,
that swallow her up whole.

Praise the mothers,
without mothers – 
they need to know
they’re doing ok.
They no longer have their guiding light,
reassuring them they’re doing it right.

Listen to the mothers,
without mothers.
Let them spill their fears
into your lap without judgement.
Their life-long listener,
can no longer hear them,
but the need to feel heard,
lives on.

Be patient with the mother,
with no mother,
when she tilts her head to the sky,
searching for her face in the clouds,
and reaching for the cord,
that was never truly cut.

Respect the mother,
with no mother,
for she has survived the deepest waters,
dark as the womb,
cold as a tomb,
without the comfort of
the beating heart that
steadied the rhythm of her own.

Care for the mother,
with no mother.
Tend to her wounds,
make her steaming cups of tea,
rest her feet on a pillow,
until she has the strength - 
to be the mother,
that her mother,
always knew she would be.


Lucie Sweeney

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‘I soaked in the messaging, ‘breast is best’, was reminded at every scan and test.’

We’re still in Maternal Mental Health Month and todays poem focuses more on the connection between breastfeeding struggles and mental health.

I’ve felt a strong urge to write about the things that impacted my mental wellbeing during those early years of pregnancy, childbirth and caring for my two little boys.

Yet at the same time, revisiting that period of my life (particularly the most exposing parts) has not been easy. There’s been a degree of ‘reliving’ involved, yet overall, I’ve found the process to be extremely healing.

But here I am, writing openly about the things that deeply shaped my experience of new motherhood, in the hope it reaches the people it needs to.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve shared poems about the harmful effects of the ‘Supermum’ myth, birth injuries and the difficulties of breastfeeding when separated from your baby.

Today I’m sharing a poem about milk and the battles I faced while trying to fulfil my dream of breastfeeding my babies.

Please restack and share so it can find it’s way to the mothers who need to hear this xx

Milk is just Milk

I soaked in the messaging,
‘breast is best’
was reminded at every scan and test.

I entered my pregnancy,
with a quiet resolve,
I would feed my baby,
liquid gold.

yet when we came home,
I couldn’t sustain,
the soreness and aching,
rawness and pain.

breasts transformed,
into molton rocks,
skin pulled tight,
unbearably hot.

overproducing,
from pumping too much,
breasts engorged,
and hard to the touch.

but my motherly fears,
weighed down on my chest,
far heavier than,
my weeping breasts.

I keep on going,
day after day,
convincing myself,
it’s the only way.

the messaging playing 
a loop in my head,
‘powdered poison’s no way to be fed’.

until one day,
when you’d finished your feed,
I noticed my breasts had started to bleed.

I realised then,
enough was enough.
this isn’t healthy,
for either of us.

from that moment on,
you fed like a dream,
skin softly glowing
like peaches and cream.

the hours I have wasted,
the tears I have spilt.
I wish someone had told me,
that milk is just milk.

Lucie Sweeney

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‘Wrenched out of sleep, to pump some more, the wounds below, angry and sore’.

I’ve been reflecting a lot on my breastfeeding journey and how it impacted my mental health.

I always had the intention to breastfeed my baby. I took a breastfeeding course in my local hospital and by the end of it was baffled as to why everybody wasn’t breastfeeding!

But things didn’t go as planned.

My water birth dream was swiftly drained due to complications, and I ended up having a cascade of interventions that led to a forceps delivery and episiotomy.

The day after, my baby was unwell and had to move to the high dependency unit for 11 days. Being separated was traumatic.

Days later, my stitches became infected and dissolved, so I was left with an open wound that took months to heal. I remained in hospital, which was a blessing to be in the same building as my baby, but cruel, because I couldn’t walk the distance to see him and had to be taken in a wheelchair whenever the nurses were available.

The most traumatic piece of the puzzle was trying to produce breast milk without my baby. I desperately wanted to give him the ‘liquid gold’ that the midwives insisted would support his recovery. I’ve since learned how difficult this can be, as new mothers rely on their baby’s closeness to trigger the hormones that support milk production.

This poem reflects what it was like at that time.

Liquid Gold

Liquid gold,
I was told,
in my hospital bed,
raw between my legs.

My baby taken,
to another part,
whilst I lay nursing,
my broken heart.

Liquid gold,
they would appeal,
your milk is needed,
for him to heal.

An impossible task,
it will not come,
I cannot do it,
I need my son.

Breast grabbed,
by another’s hand,
‘like this’ you say,
I quietly obey.

Massaged until my skin was red,
laying in my hospital bed.

Just a drop,
that’s all I need,
my little baby,
needs his feed.

The only cure,
within my hands -
come out I plead.

As if in response,
the smallest bead,
glistens and swells,
with surprising speed.

Fumbling for the syringe,
I shout,
‘help me please!’
it’s coming out.

Three pairs of hands,
appear at my bed,
scooping it in,
‘we’ve got it’ they said.

Every day after,
I pumped and I squeezed,
liquid gold,
finally freed.

Care packages sent,
again and again,
in tiny vials,
baring your name.

Each night,
I set my alarm to sound,
for this is when,
the gold is found.

Wrenched out of sleep,
to pump some more,
the wounds below,
angry and sore.

But this I can take,
I’ll suffer alone,
until the day,
I can take you home.


Lucie Sweeney

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‘I hear stories, of how she breathed her baby out, in a cloud of lavender’.

I read a wonderful article by recently, exploring ‘The ‘Supermum’ myth and how it hurt a generation’.

This week is Maternal Mental Health Week and when I reflect on what impacted my own mental health the most as a new mother, the ‘Supermum’ messaging stands out as the most harmful.

A ‘Supermum’ describes a mother who appears to juggle childcare, work and home life effortlessly and to an impressively high standard.

I heard and saw it everywhere throughout my pregnancy and beyond; in family circles, mother & baby groups and splattered across social media. Often said with good intentions to compliment mums who are juggling the impossible, but quietly implying there are two kinds of mothers: the ‘super’ ones, and the rest of us.

I remember watching Stacey Solomon on Instagram once. She was like an octopus, spoon-feeding her toddler whilst eating a banana and rocking her baby’s bouncer with her foot, all while having a conversation with her husband, who watched on in admiration. Oh and she’d just returned home from work too (of course).

That is the ‘Supermum’ ideal personified – and it is so incredibly damaging for new and expectant parents.

I wrote this poem to express how harmful the Supermum myth can be - no matter how well-intentioned the phrase might appear.

Supermum

If she is Supermum, 
what does that make me?

My birth plan didn’t go to plan,
the birthing pool remained empty.
Yet I hear stories,
of how she breathed her baby out,
in a cloud of lavender.

If she is Supermum, 
what am I?

A non-supermum, I suppose?
With my non-superpowers,
that mean I take longer to heal,
from a birth that split me open, 
then sewed me back up,
into a version of me I no longer recognise.

If she is Supermum, 
where does that leave me?

Silently battling my breastfeeding war,
breasts as hard as rocks,
as she nurses her baby with slickness and ease,
in every café and park.

If she is Supermum,
who am I?

Sleepwalking through the days,
whilst she has energy to burn – 
juggling work at the same time,
as wearing her baby in a wrap,
making the beds and feeding the cat.

If she is Supermum,
what role do I play?

The bad guy who feeds her baby from a pouch,
‘cos the carrots that turned to mush,
were launched across the floor in disgust.
Meanwhile she pulls out a perfect pot,
of homemade goodness,
from her Mary Poppins bag.

If she is Supermum,
what character am I?

The disorganised one,
who misses book swap day, forgets PE,
and rushes to the supermarket for a present,
when the parties already started.
Yet she has the family schedule,
mapped out with military precision.

If she is Supermum,
how can I compete?

I’m not infused with superpowers,
I don’t have a trusty side kick,
my home is not Bruce Waynes mansion,
and my car is full of crumbs.

I’m a mortal mum.
Imperfect and finite,
wading through motherhood,
with you in my arms.

I’m not a Supermum.
But I am your mum.

And I love you.


Lucie Sweeney

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‘Your baby’s yawn, the morning sun, preserved in words, written by mum’.

I wrote this poem in celebration of National Poetry Month. Writing poetry has changed my life for the better in so many ways.

Here are some of the unexpected ripple effects of writing poetry:

1) My identity shifted.

After years of suppressing creativity, I started to feel like my true self. My playfulness returned at work and at home. I became more vulnerable with colleagues, sharing my poems and connecting with them in deeper ways. Silliness at home was embraced by my little boys, and conversations with my husband became light and playful.

2) I started to wear ‘hot pink’.

After years of dressing in black leggings and t-shirts after having my first baby, my wardrobe became peppered with colour…especially hot pink?! My inner artist revealed itself in my wardrobe and suddenly, I was receiving compliments after hiding in the shadows for years.

3) I lost weight.

Now, I would never reduce poetry to a weight-loss tool, but the pounds dropped off without consciously changing anything. My craving for snacks and chocolate disappeared. Perhaps I felt so nourished and content, that I no longer needed to fill the void with food? Writing poetry sustained me, in more ways than one.

There are so many other benefits that I will share in future posts, but here is a poem that captures some of the wonderful gifts that poetry has to offer…

If All The World Were Poets

If all the world were poets,
what a place it would be.
Ordinary people,
drinking words like cups of tea.

Couples huddle closely,
sharing thoughts, instead of reels.
Pages, unpaid therapists,
where language soothes and heals.

Rocky days reframed,
re-written through the lens,
of lessons learned and truths revealed,
your words become your friends.

Waiting in traffic, washing clothes;
inspiration for poems and prose.
Your baby’s yawn, the morning sun,
preserved in words, written by mum.

A thousand glistening mirrors,
confronting leaders of the lands,
your words a story of the pain,
inflicted by their hands.

You might say you’re no poet,
that you cannot find the words,
but we are all poets -
silenced by the world.

Take your pen and paper,
breathe in deep, listen close,
the child within is speaking,
and what they’re speaking of is hope.

Lucie Sweeney

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‘No more long mornings, marinating between warm sheets’

Motherhood irrevocably changed my relationship with time.

Overnight, the pace had altered. Sleep eroded, cups of tea untouched and thoughts held hostage at the edge of my mind. The basic act of washing my hair, suddenly promoted to ‘luxury’ status, in the midst of full-time work and parenting.

This poem was born out of frustration (I often complain ‘there’s no time!’) but shifted mid-way, unexpectedly, as I began to accept that for now, this is the time that I have.

Slivers

Every second accounted for,
as I lift my weary head.
No more long mornings,
marinating between warm sheets,
lingering in coffee shops,
or creative dates with myself.

No luxurious minutes,
applying makeup like it’s a work of art.

No more time.

In the early years of raising children -
In a world that demands too much.

There is no time.

Yet time calls to me from between the cracks,
I’m here – she says.
Hiding in the shadows as they slumber,
rising with the sun,
waiting between your daily to do’s.
Slivers, pockets, moments.
Take me – she says.
I am yours to claim.

Find the slivers of time.

A pause in between meetings,
To breathe, sip, savour.
A lunch break unrushed.
Pages turned instead of screen scrolled.
Ordinary fragments of bliss.

Inhaling the cream,
we usually slap onto our faces.
A quick dip in a bath poured for others,
enough to warm your bones.
Hot water bottle while you watch them play,
or a paper companion,
ready to embrace your dreams.

These slivers of time,
where lightness breaks through,
these are yours,
they belong to you.

Lucie Sweeney

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‘For sweetness isn’t meant to last, forever in your grasp’

Today marks 10 years since my mother passed away.

It is also 10 years since I read my first poem, out loud, to a room packed with her friends and family.

I had always written poems and songs as a teenager. I would often write them for her and perform them at school concerts. So it felt like the most natural way for me to say goodbye in that moment. The structure and the rhyme providing a safe framework, ensuring my pain didn’t leak through the lines or travel to places I wasn’t ready to visit.

It was a bittersweet moment; words written for her, making their debut in her absence.

And this idea of sweetness, and bitter-sweetness, is a theme that my writing group and I have been exploring throughout April – what does it look like, feel like and importantly, how do we invite more sweetness into our lives.

The theme that has resonated most for me this month, is that the sweetest moments are often underpinned by a bitterness that serves to amplify their sweetness.

The bittersweet relief of ending a relationship that has turned sour. A joyful moment or achievement that cannot be shared with the person who would have appreciated it most. That wistful feeling on your child’s first day of school. Or the way my mother passed away whilst her beloved daffodils were in full bloom.

It somehow feels right, that today I will share my first poem in a public forum. The saddest of days sweetened by creating, expressing and sharing.

I hope this poem brings a little sweetness into your day.

Lucie x

Sweet Spot

Often found,
In the tangle of warm sheets,
and sleepy mornings.

Hot coffee.
Child snuggled.
Breathe their sweetness in.

The joy,
of unfolding dreams.
Your soul’s agenda,
heard and seen.

Children barefoot,
out of their beds,
scouring the garden,
for chocolate eggs.

Juicy challenge,
perfectly matched.
Secret plans,
gently hatched.

Exquisite pain,
of babes asleep.
Parting prayers,
buried deep.

Bittersweet laughter,
of an old friend.
Final hours.
We’ll meet again.

For sweetness isn’t meant to last,
forever in your grasp.

It comes and goes.

Savour it yes,
But don’t hold on.
Accept it for what it is –
A fleeting guest.

And sweeter for it.


Lucie Sweeney