From Suicide to Success

A Story of Resilience, Healing, and Hope

Lots of people add a trigger warning to their posts and blogs, this is to let people know that the content includes information which is sensitive, so, this is mine:

This blog contains sensitive topics such as unwell babies, self-harm, suicidal ideation, assault, and work-related stress.

This blog is not intended to focus on the trauma, it is intended to show that even through the darkest days we can make it through.

Navigating Challenges
I won't delve deep into my past because I have had therapy and I am ok with all of that, I have tools in my box to be able to cope with all of this and it doesn't bare any resemblance on my life right now.

So, this part of my journey began with my new-born daughter’s condition: Sandifer syndrome.

This rare condition caused her to experience seizure-like episodes when ingesting foods she was allergic to, which she digested through my breastmilk. During the height of the pandemic, I found myself alone with her a lot in hospitals, tests after tests, while my husband anxiously awaited in the car for any news about our baby. I was furloughed in Covid, as it was too dangerous to work the wards, so my daughter and I made hundreds of lined washable uniform bags for frontline services, which actually turned out to be great project bags!

I would take my crochet with me to keep me calm through appointments.

As it turned out, she was allergic to dairy, egg, soy, wheat, oats, and raspberries. Determined to understand every aspect of her condition, I delved into researching delayed reactions, type 3 IgG delayed allergic responses, and the myriad names for different allergens. Did you know there are over 70 names for soy alone not including the hidden ones, I became well-versed in the manufacturing processes of hundreds of foods. My obsession with keeping her healthy took over my life, I could not eat the food that she was allergic too which took out a huge amount of food, even meat, if there was even a chance that a cow or chicken had ingested some food that could contain soy it was a no go.

Alongside this newfound challenge, I grappled with my own mental health. Many moons ago, rape, sexual assaults, drugs, violent and abusive relationships etc led to me seeking trauma therapy whereby ADHD, depersonalization disorder, depression, and anxiety which had been part of my life for years was diagnosed.

Now, with my poorly baby these feelings of anxiety and dissociation intensified. I dreaded returning to work, fearing that someone might inadvertently give my daughter the wrong food, causing her harm. I became distrustful of everyone other than my husband. We would hoover 8/9 times a day as we had other children in the house and could not risk the baby picking up their food, we could not go to play areas with her because the fear of her touching something a child had touched that had previously eaten an allergen was terrifying.

Each day, I put on a brave face, but the mirror reflected my inner turmoil, I was constantly sore from holding the baby in an upright position, she could not sleep laying down and so for 6 months straight my husband and I took turns at sitting upright with her all night so she could rest, the weight of this responsibility, looking after two other children (one with their own mental health and was going through camhs), and the fear of being a burden to those around me was so intense.

I constantly wondered how my husband could still love me, I was a mess, instead of lucky and grateful I felt disgusting, I felt like I was a burden to these people.

So, as the back-to-work date approached, I faced another challenge: the lack of a suitable room for expressing breastmilk.

The room they provided was adjacent to the area where controlled medications were administered, meaning I would hear the restraints and see very distressed patients constantly, with a see-through panel and no washing facilities this was far from ideal, the stress weighed heavily on me. Expressing milk was essential for my daughter’s well-being, yet the environment and staff made it nearly impossible.

I cried daily, overwhelmed by the pressure. Eventually, I couldn’t bear it any longer and requested a fit note from my Dr for time off to boost my milk supply. Even during this time, the hospital continued to contact me, adding to my stress, despite the agreement being that they would contact me when they found me a suitable room to express in. Christmas Eve brought no respite as I was faced with a long phone call from the ward regarding my return.

It was then suggested that I use a spare patient bedroom on another ward, but the uncertainty of its availability meant I had to call them daily and pray that the room wasn't taken.

An opportunity later arose: a chance to join the team on the ward where I expressed milk. I applied, drawing on my experiences with allergies, intolerances, food intake, and mental health. I secured the position and felt a renewed sense of purpose.

But the emotional weight persisted. I was crying on my breaks, I was noticeably losing weight now and could not hide it, my mother in law contacted the Dr to make me an appointment and I was diagnosed me with postnatal depression—a revelation that hit me like a brick.

Healing Through Creativity

As the days blurred into weeks and I was getting used to being back on medication, I found solace in my newfound role on the ward. Teaching patients to crochet became a therapeutic outlet for both them and me. The rhythmic motion of yarn and hook allowed our minds to wander, unraveling stress and anxiety, the journal allowed us all to document our fears, hopes and dreams.

One patient, who had experienced a lifetime of hurt in their short life was finally committed to making something for themselves, but they didn't even know what their favourite colour was, they were never allowed to like anything for themselves, this became such an important part of the healing journey for them, I encouraged them to pick some yarn and try out different colours to work out which one they liked best, this was an extremely emotional day, this is why in the journal is a page dedicated to finding your favourite colour, becasue, some people don't know.

I watched them as the weeks passed, each new row they created seemed to mend a fragment of their soul, you may be reading this thinking "yeah right", but until you have tried it you won't know that feeling.

We didn’t need to speak; our shared silence spoke volumes. The crochet scarf became a symbol of personality, survival and hope. The crochet group grew, men and women alike joined in, it was a non-gendered, non specific therapy which was working.

The ward had a meeting on a Monday where the patients would thank staff, an anonymous note to me read “We’re all stitching ourselves back together because of you and your old lady crocheting"!

The Unravelling

Then one day in the Summer, an incident—the unthinkable—left scars on my child’s innocence. The paedophile shattered our world.

Not only this, he was the son of a colleague, a nurse I’d work alongside occasionally.

I pleaded with management. “Please, don’t put me on the same shift as this lady, I cannot work alongside her knowing what her son has done, I know that it was not her fault but I cannot look at her and not instantly think of my daughter” I implored.

But their response was cold, clinical and uncaring.

“Professionalism,” they said. “We expect you to work alongside all colleagues in a professional manner.” The nurse, a bank nurse became an unavoidable presence. Our unspoken shared burden was too much for me to cope with.

I considered alternatives, I siggested to the manager we do opposite shifts, different wards, but bureaucracy held me captive. HR, the Head of Nursing, the Modern Matrons they all echoed the same refrain. “You must adapt, you must work professionally.” But how could I? How could I look at her without seeing him? The predator who stole my child’s innocence?

The morning I walked in with my resignation, the hospital corridors felt different. I cried the entire walk in.

Twenty years of dedication to mental health reduced to nothing.

This was me, what the fu*k was I meant to do now?

I had loved my job, I loved when a new patient would come to the ward bringng with them chaos, learning quickly about their needs and illness, becoming a mental health carer not only to them but to their concerned families, speaking up to consultants who would pass inappropriate comments, helping people to come back to who they were before the illness and in a few short weeks seeing a glimmer of a person who was so unwell when they came in to now being able to hold a conversation.

Gone. All gone.

I put in as many holidays as I could and sick days for the remainder of my notice because the ward refused to not let the colleague take bank shifts when I was there.

In the quiet of a storage room on the afternoon that I was due to leave, I looked back at my degree, my achievements, the letters from my patients' families, thanking me for my compassion, and service, and I cried. I cried so much, patients came to see me, giving me gifts, crochet items they had learned to make, letters of thanks filled tubs, I sat on the floor surrounded by my patients all crying with me, though none of them knew the reason why I had to leave, I wish I could have told them.

I wrote every single patient a letter, telling them not to give up, not to stop believing that things could get better, but, i was a fraud and a hypocrite, my plan following leaving that hospital was to end it all.

I was telling them not to do the very thing I was planning. I don't know why I wanted to end it all because looking back I had everything, a wonderful little family, amazing friends, a chance to start fresh, I just felt in the pit of my stomach that everyone would be better off without me and to this day I cannot explain why I felt that way.

And so, at the end of the shift, patients by my side, crying and wishing me well, I walked the long corridor to the exit, the hospital doors closed behind me, I carried my daughter’s pain, my own grief, and the remnants of a career left behind. Colleagues who had tried to fight to keep me also crying as I left.

The path ahead was uncharted, I was so scared.

I walked the long way home, passed the long road, cars whizzing by me, lorries heading away from town, my brain went blan and everything went quiet, I put a step towards the road, at this point my phone rang, I stepped back into the path, it was my husband. He had inadvertently saved my life.

Fate

One frost-kissed morning, I woke up and decided I needed to get out of the house, we bundled up and I walked my baby through the forest. There, amidst the whispering leaves, fate intervened. A former patient crossed my path, a soul I had cared for during darker days. We chatted a while, I asked them if they were still crocheting and using the journal...

“Sarah, crocheting is amazing, it’s one of the best things I’ve ever learned, it keeps my mind from going to bad places and keeps my hands busy, thank you for having patience and teaching me”. We finished our conversation and went our separate ways, my mind was in overdrive, I started to think about ways I could turn crochet into a business, the patient will never know the impact they had on me that morning, if you ever read this you will know who you are and I will be forever grateful to you. You saved me.

My depression had been spiralling out of control, but as I walked away their gratitude echoed in my mind, there was a symphony of hope. My mind started whizzing with ideas about crocheting and mental health, should I start another degree and do my dissertation on this? Should I start selling my crochet? Should I start a business?!

Upon my return I was telling my daughter that I had bumped into a patient and told them what they said, my daughter then says "well, why don't you put it all in a kit and sell it then", I laughed it off, but my mother in law soon got wind of this and became the confidence boosting, imposter syndrome battering source I needed.

Seedlings - Rainbow Dandelion Crochet

In that moment, the Seedlings Crochet Kit took root. It wasn’t just about yarn and hooks; it was about resilience, rebirth, and the stubbornness of... me. A middle finger to the hospital, I was going to continue helping people despite how much pain they caused me.

I sat down and wrote about what I wanted from my business, what I want to provide people with, what I wanted from the kit, the answer was hope. I wanted to provide people with the means of learning more about themselves, what they like and don't like, I wanted to teach them a hobby that can help their wellbeing, I wanted to keep helping people.

I then started to doodle my logo, I wanted each element to tell a story (more on this later)

I had no money at all for this venture, as such I decided to crowdfund, this was exhausting and full of scammers and I almost gave up, but on the 1st January 2024 I received the full amount I had needed to get me started, just over £1000.

From Suicide to Success

Through the campaign I sold some kits, I sold some accessories and then the business started to grow. I started to look for groups on social media who shared my passion and was advised to apply for some awards, being brand new to business I wasn't sure it was a good idea, so I left it a while, until a friend encouraged me and reminded me of how far I had come and that actually I had nothing to lose. So off I went, I researched the awards I wanted to apply for and went for it.

I am humbled and thrilled to say that I have won the following awards:

January 2024:

The Smart Social Award on Twitter