The Phone Call That Changed Everything!

 

My day started like any other.

I woke up early for work and began my usual morning routine. There was nothing unusual about the day. Nothing to suggest that my life was about to change forever.

As I got ready, I noticed that I had two missed calls from my mum's friend, Sandra. I didn't think too much of it at first. I assumed I would call her back once I got settled at work.

I arrived at work and began the normal opening procedures. Turning on the air conditioning. Writing the doctors names on the board. Getting everything ready for the day ahead.

It was all so ordinary.

Once everything was set up, I sat down at my desk, logged into my computer and returned Sandra's call.

That's when everything changed.

Sandra told me that my mum had been taken to hospital in Greece.

At first, I didn't know what to think. There was very little information. No explanation about what had happened. No indication of how serious the situation was. Just the fact that my mum had been taken to hospital.

I immediately tried to call my mum.

I knew she had her phone with her. My first thought was that there had been some sort of misunderstanding and that she would answer, tell me what had happened, and put my mind at ease.

But the calls went unanswered.

I tried again.

And again.

Nothing.

At first, I told myself there were perfectly reasonable explanations. Maybe she was being examined by a doctor. Maybe her phone battery had died. Maybe she had left it in a bag somewhere and simply couldn't get to it.

But with every unanswered call, the knot in my stomach grew tighter.

The thing about moments like that is that your mind starts searching for answers before you have any facts. You find yourself jumping between hope and fear within seconds. One moment you're convincing yourself everything will be fine. The next, you're imagining the worst.

I kept looking at my phone, willing it to ring.

Waiting for her name to appear on the screen.

Waiting for her to answer.

Instead, there was only silence.

Looking back now, I realize that was probably the moment I knew something was seriously wrong. Not because of what anyone had told me, but because my mum would never have ignored my calls if she was able to answer them.

That was the moment I started to feel genuinely concerned.

Once I finally managed to get hold of my mum's friend, my first questions were simple.

What happened?

How did we even get to this point?

How had my mum ended up in a hospital in Greece?

I was desperately trying to make sense of a situation that, at that point, felt completely unreal.

She explained that they had gone out for dinner that evening and that my mum had started complaining of stomach pain. At first, it didn't seem overly serious. The kind of discomfort that you might put down to something you've eaten or a temporary illness.

Later that evening, my mum went to lie down.

As the night went on, things apparently became worse.

During the early hours of the morning, she began complaining that she was struggling to breathe properly.

Hearing those words now still stops me in my tracks.

My mum's friend realized something wasn't right and contacted the hotel reception. The front desk then called for an ambulance.

From that moment on, everything changed.

As I listened, I found myself trying to picture those final hours. Trying to imagine what my mum was thinking, how frightened she might have been, and wishing more than anything that I could have been there with her.

But all I had were fragments of information.

Small pieces of a story that I was desperately trying to put together.

Every answer seemed to lead to another question.

What happened in the ambulance?

What happened when she arrived at the hospital?

Did she know how serious it was?

Was she scared?

Was she in pain?

Those are the questions that stay with you after someone dies unexpectedly.

Not because you're looking for someone to blame.

But because when someone you love is suddenly gone, your mind searches endlessly for understanding, hoping that if you can somehow reconstruct every moment, it might make the impossible feel a little more real.

The lack of information was terrifying. My mind immediately began filling in the blanks with worst-case scenarios. I kept refreshing my phone, waiting for a message, a call, anything that might tell me what was happening.

In the meantime, I was doing everything I could think of.

While waiting for answers, I started looking at flights to Greece. I checked availability, looked at departure times, and began searching for accommodation. At that point, I still didn't know exactly what was happening, but I knew I needed to get there.

I couldn't sit and wait.

I needed to be closer to my mum.

I needed answers.

As I searched through flight options and tried to make sense of the little information I had, my phone started ringing constantly.

The hospital was calling.

The Greek consulate was calling.

Different people were trying to make contact.

The calls seemed endless.

Each time my phone rang, my heart would sink. I found myself staring at the screen before answering, wondering whether this would be the call that finally explained what was happening.

It felt as though events were moving far quicker than I could process them.

One minute I was checking flights.

The next, I was speaking to hospitals and government officials.

The reality of the situation was beginning to settle in.

People weren't calling me because my mum was unwell.

People were calling me because something serious had happened.

I remember feeling overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information, questions and decisions that suddenly landed on my shoulders.

Everything felt urgent.

Everything felt important.

And yet all I really wanted was a simple answer to one question:

Was my mum going to be okay?

At that point, I was still holding onto hope.

Even as the phone continued to ring.

Even as the conversations became more serious.

Even as a part of me was beginning to fear the worst.

I contacted my aunt and together we began trying to piece together information. We made phone calls, reached out to anyone who might know something and tried to establish which hospital my mum had been taken to.

Every answer seemed to create more questions.

Was she conscious?

What had happened?

How serious was it?

Would she be coming home?

At that point, we didn't know.

All we knew was that she was in a hospital in Greece and we needed to get to her.

Looking back now, that period of uncertainty feels almost harder to describe than the grief itself. It was a strange limbo between normal life and disaster. A period where nothing had been confirmed, but where deep down I knew something wasn't right.

I spent those hours desperately searching for information while trying to hold onto hope.

Hope that she would be okay.

Hope that there was an explanation.

Hope that this would all turn out to be far less serious than it felt.

I didn't know then that this would be the last day of my life before everything changed.

The Loss of My Father: Grief, Love, and the Man Who Was My Everything

Losing my dad shattered something in me that I’m still trying to piece together. He wasn’t just my father—he was my whole world. The funniest, kindest, most loving and caring man I’ve ever known. His presence filled every room, and his absence now echoes in ways I never imagined possible.

He had this way of making everything feel safe. He could turn an ordinary moment into a lifelong memory—through laughter, stories, or just his quiet way of being there.

I miss the smell of his cigars. I didn’t think I would, but now I crave that familiar scent because it meant he was near. I miss his soup—deeply. Growing up in a Jamaican household, soup wasn’t just a meal, it was an experience. And his? Always a 10 out of 10. No matter how many times I try, I can never quite perfect that recipe. But I think he’d be proud that I’ve learned to make dumplings—something he always said made the soup complete. It’s my little way of keeping him close.

I miss the endless stories—some repeated, some wildly exaggerated, but always captivating. If I could go back in time, I’d pick the days when he used to meet me at the bus stop after school. He’d be waiting, smile on his face, asking how my day went. We'd walk home, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing. I still remember the coarse texture of his hands—rough from work but gentle with me. I’d give anything to feel that again. I miss helping him shave his bald head, the way he'd trust me with the razor, joking the whole time.

Now, I know some of my siblings might be mad when I say this—but was I my dad’s favorite? Yes. Was I his world? Yes. Don’t take that up with me, take it up with your dad. That’s the kind of bond we had. And I’ll cherish it always.

Since he passed, I’ve moved through the stages of grief like waves crashing over me.

Denial. In the beginning, I kept thinking, “He’ll call any minute.” I would forget for a split second and then it would hit me again like a wave: he’s really gone.

Anger. I was angry at the world. Angry at time for being too short. Angry that someone so good could be taken away.

Bargaining. I thought, “If I could just have one more day, one more hug, one more chance to say ‘I love you.’”

Depression. There were days where getting out of bed felt impossible. His absence was a weight I didn’t know how to carry.

Acceptance. I’m still learning what this means. It doesn’t mean I’m “over it.” It means I’m learning to live with the loss, to carry it with me as I move forward.

One verse that comforts me deeply is Isaiah 41:10:

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

That promise reminds me that even in this sorrow, I am not alone. My dad may be gone from this world, but his love surrounds me still—in my memories, in the way I love others, and in the strength he passed on to me.

He was my everything. And he always will be.

To anyone else who’s grieving the loss of a parent—your pain is real, and your love is valid. Grief is not a sign of weakness; it’s a reflection of how deeply you loved. Take your time. Cry if you need to. Smile when the memories come. And most of all, remember that you are not alone. In every laugh, every tear, every act of kindness you carry forward. That’s their legacy—and it’s beautiful.

Unapologetically Black Muva🖤

Half-Term Hustle: Where My Money Went and My Peace Left

Every school holiday, we dream of quality time, laughter, bonding moments… and then half-term shows up like a storm with two hungry children, unpredictable weather, and receipts longer than my patience. As a Black mum of a 13-year-old and an 8-year-old, I’m here to keep it real and tell you exactly how it went down. Spoiler alert: it involves trampoline socks, Morleys, and me asking the universe why I’m paying to watch my own kids run wild.

Half-Term Madness: Why I’m Paying to Watch My Own Kids Eat Me Outta House and Home

Let me tell you something: half-term rolls around, and suddenly I’m a personal chef, events coordinator, and walking cash machine—all rolled into one. I’ve got two kids: one 13, one 8. One thinks she’s grown, the other thinks I’m her full-time entertainer. And both of them? Eating like I’ve got a secret Nando’s in my kitchen.

Now I don’t know who decided that school holidays should be this long, but I’d like a word. Because the second school’s out, they’re looking at me like, “Mum, what are we doing today?” Excuse me? I don’t recall signing up to host a two week-long adventure camp.

First of all—activity planning. That right there is spiritual warfare. The teen just wants to scroll TikTok and pretend she doesn’t know me in public. The 8-year-old? She wants to run wild like she’s starring in her own Disney Channel special. And me? I just want to sit down for five minutes without hearing, “Mum, I’m hungry.”

We did bowling—£50 gone in an hour, and the teenager said it was “meh.” Trampoline park? £5 for socks. Socks, Special socks I can’t even use to clean my floors. And why, someone tell me WHY, am I paying to sit there and watch them bounce? I’m not jumping. I’m not playing. I’m literally standing there like security with a handbag. Let me in free and give me a chair at least!

Then there’s the food. Listen. These kids eat like I’m running a buffet. I packed sandwiches, drinks, fruit—trying to be a good mum. What do they say? “Mum, this is boring. Can we get chips?” So now we’re buying overpriced chicken nuggets and juice like I got it like that. One day I caught myself saying, “We got food at home”—and I meant it with my chest.

By day three, I started planning “activities” like watching a movie at home or “helping Mum tidy up” because guess what? I’m tired. Half-term is a hustle, and don’t let Instagram fool you—nobody’s having that much fun. We're just trying to survive without losing our minds or overdrafting the bank account.

Now that half-term is over? Listen—I love my kids, but I was ready for them to go back to school by week one. The house is quieter, the fridge isn’t crying, and my bank account can finally breathe again. We even got a little break when they had a sleepover at Aunty’s house. Free time? Yes. Did I use it to relax? Of course not. I cleaned like I was auditioning for Supernanny. But still—peace and quiet hit different when it’s your own house.

Still, I’ll say this: seeing them happy, hearing them laugh (even when they’re cracking up at something that not funny🤨), it does something to your heart. But next time? I’m starting a GoFundMe just for snacks. And I want a loyalty card for every time I pay to stand around doing nothing but supervising vibes.

Black Mum Half-Term Tip #1: Pack snacks like you’re feeding a youth football team.

Tip #2: “No” is a full sentence.

Tip #3: If they say they’re bored, hand them a mop.

Thanks  for stopping by

Black Muva💋

Setting Boundaries with Grandma: A Lesson I Didn't See Coming

I’ve never really been the “boundaries” type. At least, not until I got older and had kids.

I never thought the day would come where I’d have to set boundaries with my own mum — their grandma — when it came to my girls. But here we are.

I grew up where the “No” came faster than the speed of light. It started with the little things: spoiling them, giving them whatever they wanted, sneaking them chocolate before they even turned one. The list felt endless. At first, I let it slide. After all, that’s what grandparents are known for, right? But eventually, enough was enough.

My kids, my rules.

Growing up, if I had acted like that or pushed the limits, I would’ve gotten a quick slap. So why were the rules so different when it came to her grandkids?

The day finally came when we had to have the conversation. It went something like this:

“I’m the parent. You’re the grandmother. What I say goes.”

No sweets before dinner. No cake just because they’re cute. No bending the rules we’re trying to teach them at home.

Honestly, I was nervous about how it would go — but surprisingly, it went well. She understood. It wasn’t about taking away the fun of being a grandparent; it was about respecting the way I’m choosing to raise my girls.

Setting boundaries wasn’t easy, but it was necessary — and it ended up strengthening our relationship instead of hurting it.

Turns out, the hardest part of parenting isn’t the kids — it’s teaching grandma the rules!

Till Next Time

Unapologetically Black Muva😜

When Your Inner Teenager Wants to Throw Hands for Your Kid!

 How Do You, as a Parent, Combat Bullying?

At some point, every parent either has been there — or will end up there — standing in front of the mirror, fighting the very real urge to squeeze into your kid’s school uniform and go handle their bully yourself.

Listen, no judgment. In the heat of the moment, when you hear your child is being picked on, all logic flies right out the window. You suddenly find yourself plotting revenge during morning drop-off, mentally dusting off your old school tie like, “Say less. I’m ready.”

When your child is being bullied, it’s hard not to get emotional. I can't lie — when my daughter first ran into issues starting secondary school, I definitely had thoughts of dressing up like a student and handling it myself. Guilty!

In some cases, I actually believe that bullying can build character. It teaches kids how to defend themselves and set boundaries. If they don’t, unfortunately, it can continue.

For my daughter, she knew she had to nip it in the bud. She didn’t want to be that kid whose mum or dad had to come to school to "handle" another student. And you know what? She did just that — she fixed the situation without throwing hands, standing her ground firmly and respectfully.

Sometimes, it’s about teaching our kids resilience and giving them the tools to stand up for themselves — while also being ready to step in if they truly need us.

(Still... keep the blazer on standby. Just in case.)

✌🏾  For Now

Unapologetically Black Muva

The First Time My Daughter Faced Racism — And the Silence That Followed

My daughter’s first experience with racism happened when she was just six months old. We were at a GP practice, waiting for an appointment, when a little white boy turned to his mother and said — and I quote — "Mummy, we don't like brown people, do we?"

His words hung heavy in the air. His mother’s face immediately turned bright red, but she said nothing — no apology, no correction, no words at all. She simply got up and left abruptly, avoiding any acknowledgment of what had just happened.

It was a moment that stayed with me. My daughter was far too young to understand what had been said, but as her mother, I felt the sting deeply. It was a harsh reminder that racism isn’t something children are born with — it’s something they are taught, whether through words, silence, or inaction.

This experience was the first of many difficult truths I knew I would one day have to explain to her: that sometimes people will make judgments about her without ever knowing her, simply because of the color of her skin.

With that being said as a parent of Black children, one of the hardest conversations to have is the one about race — the moment you have to explain that the world may not always treat them fairly simply because of the color of their skin. It’s a painful truth, but one that’s necessary to prepare them for the realities they may face.

For me, this conversation isn’t a single moment; it’s an ongoing dialogue that evolves as my child grows. I first brought it up when my daughter was around 7 years old, in a way that was age-appropriate but honest. I wanted her to understand that while there is so much beauty and pride in who she is, not everyone will see it that way. Some people may judge her without ever knowing her, simply because of how she looks.

It was important to approach the conversation with a balance of truth and hope. I emphasized that although racism exists, it doesn’t define who she is or what she can achieve. I made sure she knew she is powerful, brilliant, and loved — and that she comes from a long line of people who have overcome incredible obstacles with resilience and grace.

The conversation about race isn’t a one-time "talk," but an ongoing journey of teaching, listening, and empowering. It’s about giving my daughter the tools to navigate a world that might not always be fair, while making sure she never forgets her worth and the strength of her identity.

Parenting 101

Parenting: where sleep deprivation, tantrums, and endless questions meet laughter, love, and adventure. I'm no expert, just a regular parent trying to figure things out as I go. My girls, aged 13 and 8, are my guides, teachers, and favorite people to spend time with. In this blog, I'll share our stories, struggles, and triumphs, in the hopes that they'll make you laugh, cry, or nod your head in recognition.

Welcome to my first post, where I'll be diving into the world of parenting and sharing my experiences as a mom to two lively girls who seem to have a permanent debate club going on in our household. From the constant bickering and squabbling to the moments of pure joy and connection, I'll be sharing it all. As a parent, I've learned to navigate the ups and downs of raising two unique individuals, and I'm excited to share my insights, lessons learned, and parenting hacks with you...

Thanks for stopping by

Till next time 

Unapologetically Black  muva