Dear Reader

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

This is an exerpt from my introductory post on my new Substack.

Some stories come from lived experience, like navigating my son’s addiction and the long road of recovery. Others are shaped by imagination, like the cozy mystery I’m writing, set in a small café where trust is both tested and rebuilt. Some of my life stories still bring tears. Others make me smile. And many are filled with memories that warm my heart.

I write for anyone who’s ever carried a burden across generations, and for anyone who longs to heal forward.

Stories we wrestle with

One of the many stories I wrestled with for over 70 years was my near drowning at age 4. Four-year-old me knew my mother tried to drown me. From that moment on, I never trusted her. Over the years, we battled a lot. We were civil with others around. It was only when we were alone that we allowed ourselves to be brutally honest.

Over the years I came to understand her - she had an abusive childhood, never knew her parents … you can imagine the rest. She died in 2003. Whenever I thought of her, my four-year-old self popped in, reminding me not to be too charitable. "Remember, she tried to drown you when you were only four!"

At last I found a way to set down the weight of that old story.

This year, in March, I read that we can reframe our stories, tell them how we wanted them to be. What we wished had happened. How an imagined outcome would have shaped the following years.

I decided to rewrite my 73 year old trauma story, as a piece of fiction - different names, different outcome. As I wrote, I realised another truth of that event. Since then, my heart has been lighter, I talk and laugh with my mother like she is still alive and we have become best friends.

I've learned it’s never too late to rewrite the stories we wrestle with,

And I want to share that rewritten event with you. Skip to the end if you don't want to read it all. I won't be offended.

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The Fruit Knife

The two women sat companionably talking. Denise took out a small package, hesitated, then fondled it for a moment before pushing it across the table. Her fingers trembled slightly.

“I bought this for you when you were four,” she said, rubbing her hands together, then clenching them in her lap, trying to still their shaking.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I remember what happened when I was four, you know.” Her voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. “Why give this to me now?”

She hesitated before unwrapping it, her fingers brushing over the faded wrapping paper, brittle with age.

“I found it when I was sorting through some things,” Denise muttered. “I thought it was time I gave it to you.”

She should have given the little fruit knife to Sarah years ago - right after she bought it. Maybe things would have been different between them. But she had wanted to be sure Sarah would keep it. Her daughter had always been careless with gifts, something Denise had noticed from an early age. No matter how carefully she chose them, they never seemed to stay in Sarah’s possession. Over the years, she had spotted her gifts on friends, cousins, even strangers.

“Oh, they needed it more than I did,” Sarah would say with a shrug, as if that were reason enough to discard the carefully chosen tokens of love.

But this knife was different. It had meant more than any other gift she had ever given anyone. She had clung to it, unable to part with it, though she had never fully understood why.

Now, at last, she had given it to Sarah. And her daughter remembered. Denise had not realised, not until this moment, how much that day had haunted her, too.

“You tried to drown me.”

The words landed like a blade to the gut - sharp, deep, unrelenting. Not the gentle fruit knife, but a butcher’s boning knife, slicing through decades of unspoken resentment.

Denise recoiled but forced herself to remain still. The air between them felt heavy, electric with things left unsaid. She had come too far to run now.

“Please,” she said softly, “let me tell you how it happened for me.”

Sarah’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded.

When Sarah was four, they had gone to Mooloolaba for their annual summer holiday. Denise had always loved the water and had hoped, desperately, that this would be the year her daughter would learn to love it too. Every day, she had coaxed her into the waves, had held her hands and laughed with her as the water surged around them. Sarah had clung to her tightly, but by the second week, she had started to relax, even jumping up and down in the shallows.

Denise had felt a flicker of triumph, a moment of ease. Then a rogue wave crashed into them, knocking her off balance. She lost her grip on Sarah. They tumbled, tossed and swallowed by the sea.

Denise had panicked, flailing in the water, desperate to find her little girl. When she finally stumbled back onto the shore, gasping, Sarah had already been pulled from the water by her father. She had turned her back on Denise, refusing to look at her, refusing to speak to her for a week.

Sarah had never forgiven her. And now Denise understood. Sarah had believed, all this time, that she had held her down.

Denise swallowed hard. “I was mortified. It didn’t matter what your father said, I knew you hated me. I searched everywhere for the perfect gift, something to show you how much I loved you. And then I found this knife. It was tucked away in a little haberdashery store, nestled among odds and ends of cutlery. I thought you’d love it, that you’d use it in your tea parties with your dolls. I wanted it to be a bridge between us.”

Sarah looked down at the small knife, still resting in its purple velvet sleeve. “But you never gave it to me. And you never told me you were sorry.”

Denise’s breath hitched. She had meant to give it to her that very night. But she had hesitated. What if Sarah lost it? What if she gave it away? All her relief that she hadn’t drowned her own child had become bound up in the small, fragile thing. So she had waited. And waited. And waited.

Every year, just after Christmas, she would take it out, turn it over in her hands, and decide it still wasn’t the right time.

Denise sighed, the weight of years pressing against her ribs. “I never understood you,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not as a child. Not even now.”

Sarah traced the handle of the knife with her fingertip, lost in thought.

“Do you realise how that moment shaped my whole life?” Her voice was thick with emotion, her fingers tightening around the knife. “I thought you meant to drown me. I still feel the fear of it - the saltwater choking me, the waves swallowing me whole, the terror of knowing I was alone. And I thought… I thought I couldn’t trust you.”

Tears streamed down her face, unchecked, unhidden. She pulled the knife from its sheath and stared at it.

Denise held her breath.

Sarah’s grip loosened. She exhaled, slowly, looking up at her mother with something unreadable in her eyes.

“You didn’t mean to drown me.”

A statement. A realisation.

“No,” Denise whispered. “I didn’t.”

Sarah looked down at the knife again.

“This knife…” Her voice broke slightly. “You kept it all these years?”

Denise nodded.

Sarah swallowed hard, then slid the knife back into its sheath and closed her fingers around it.

The weight of it felt different now. Not a weapon. Not a wound. But something else entirely.

“Why did you wait so long?” she asked.

Denise shook her head. “I don’t know.”

For the first time in years, she reached across the table and covered Sarah’s hand with her own. And, for the first time in years, Sarah didn’t pull away.

Stephanie Hammond, © March 2025

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What story are you holding on to? Is it time to reframe it? The freedom I feel from releasing the weight of that old story is priceless. I laugh about that now, and rejoice in being able to heal from the fears that stemmed from my interpretation of that event. It may be true - I know that. But in all honesty, I prefer Denise and Sarah's story. What about you? Can you rewrite your old stories?

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Health Update

I'm enjoying life again! Not fully back to 'normal' - but I'm writing and being more physical. Still not reading and gym work is minimal compared to what I was doing.

However, my final visit to the ophthalmologist was an eye opener.

His verdict - no eye exercises. Keep wearing my piggybacked glasses, add the reading ones too if I can handle the weight, and my eyes should settle on their own, by September. If not, the solution is simple. Get a new prescription.

Simple - and I"m relieved, as you can imagine. The piggybacked glasses are heavier than a single pair, but I can deal with that. And it's July. So two more months at the most, and I'll be much more comfortable.

In the meantime, I'm looking after myself with as much exercise as I can handle, getting stronger, enjoying the winter sun today as I write this. Life is good.

Thank you again for your well wishes. I feel your kind thoughts for healing. It helps, believe me.

With love
Stephanie

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My thoughts for Living Life in 2025 and beyond:

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"My religion is kindness"

Dalai Lama

“Cast your bread upon the waters and it will
come back - buttered”

Doris May Payne - my mother

"Life is a Daring Adventure or Nothing"

Helen Keller

“Write it on my heart that every day is
the best day of the year”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Remember that sometimes not getting
what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck"
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Dalai Lama

“I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. The brave [person] is not [the one] who does not feel afraid, but [the one] who conquers that fear.”

Nelson Mandela

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www.StephanieHammondAuthor.com

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