Please note: this piece contains descriptions some readers may find upsetting.
I must have been only nine or ten when it happened, a split second in my world that has left a lasting impact on my psyche. It was a fresh day, the type of day where the air feels crisp, the world full of opportunity. I was in the passenger seat of my mum’s car, singing along to One Direction or whatever it was that pre-teen girls like me were into those days, when the traffic slowed to a dramatic halt. A man ran out of a car into the main road. I didn’t know what was happening, and then I saw him. On the pavement by the road was an elderly man in an electric wheelchair looking forlornly down at the ground where his tweed cap lay. Who knows the story of that cap, what it has seen and the places it had visited. Now it was stuck on the pavement, its owner physically unable to reach down to pick it up. Out of sheer kindness that man had run out into the road to help this elderly gentleman. With swift movement and a friendly pat on the head , man and cap were reunited and the traffic started to disperse. I imagine the other witnesses do not remember this event but I do, I remember the lump in my throat, the prickle of the tears. That small act of kindness will never leave me.
My childhood was a rollercoaster. Traumatic memories interspersed between smiles, nature and play. I was born into a family with a significant history of child sexual abuse. Although the perpetrators never had direct access to me, it meant I was treated very differently than other children. I never understood why it was always so important to my family that I was covered up, I wasn’t allowed to wear the cute crop tops and skirts my friends had. I also spent a large quantity of my time helping to look after my disabled granny who had been profoundly damaged by the legacy of my perverse family history. Looking back so much of my childhood experience was abnormal, but I never realised it at the time. I learned to see the beauty of life, in the trees and the streets and the seas. My mum taught me that, hope resides in unexpected places, especially in nature.
My mother was exceptionally kind and selfless. Having grown up in the direct aftermath of my family scandals, she missed the opportunity of having a childhood. Innocence, laughter and play were all cruelly stolen from her. She made it her life’s mission to both help other people and try to ensure that I had the best possible start in life. She worked hard, qualifying as a clinical neuropsychologist, she never thought of herself, her sole purpose was to help others. She survived by providing hope to people, young and old, rich and poor. She believed that, with the right help, everyone had the power to make a positive change in the world. I have now inherited this belief.
My mum was diagnosed with cancer when I was 16. She continued to put others before herself and never gave up hope. She never let her cancer get her down, she was brave and just got on with it. She lived for me, she wanted to see me succeed and be happy and thankfully she did. She died in March 2024, I was 21 years old.
I have been volunteering in Big Noise Raploch for the last year and a half, we help to transform lives of children and communities through music. I help out with after school groups for children learning to play orchestral instruments. In the years following my mum’s diagnosis I lost myself. I lost my purpose, my anchor, my hope. The children of Big Noise Raploch helped me find my smile again. They made me happy, and this in turn, helped my mum be happy and hopeful too. The children of Big Noise come in all ages and all shapes, sizes and abilities. Each and every one of them are unique, talented and very very special. Some of these children face difficulties in their lives that many adults could never imagine, and yet they still go to school and come to big noise to practice their instruments. I never believed I could learn so much from people half my age but they are my inspiration, my reason and my hope.
Through my work at Big Noise I have learned that a part of my mum still lives within me. Her hope for the future and her belief in people is a major component of who I am. Two days after her death I assisted in an online survey opportunity for the young people of Big Noise. The children were provided with a set of anonymous questions on their experiences of Big Noise. One of these questions asked the children to describe Big Noise. One child had simply written "family". It was at this moment I had hope that I would be okay. I felt the same lump in my throat and the prickle in my eyes I felt all those years ago. We are in this together kid, and we are going to be okay.