How The Weight of Living came to be - My journey from reader to writer.

Hi there,

I’ve been meaning to write this post for ages — mostly because I wanted somewhere to put all the bits of my story that don’t fit into a book blurb or author bio. So here it is, in all its messy, chaotic glory.

I’m 35, a primary school teacher in Wales, and the mum of two amazing kids: Liam, who’s seven, and Molly, who’s five. Our family also includes Travis, our 11-year-old Goldador, who somehow manages to be both a big cuddly lump and a permanent source of chaos. And, well… I’m in the middle of a divorce. Life has been a lot lately, and some days it feels like I’m juggling too many things at once.

I’ve always loved reading, but life got in the way for a while. A couple of years ago, my parents bought me a Kindle, and I got hooked again. I rediscovered how reading could be total escapism — a little bubble of time to myself where I could just disappear into someone else’s world. But it also became a coping mechanism, a way to make sense of everything happening in my life when the real world felt overwhelming.

I’ve struggled with mental health, including depression and anxiety, for most of my adult life. But for years, I couldn’t find the words to explain what it was like inside my own brain. I felt isolated, misunderstood, and completely alone in my experiences. And then it hit me — if I wanted to feel seen, maybe I could create a character who felt like me. Someone who thought the same thoughts, wrestled with the same feelings, and stumbled through life in ways I recognized.

The idea of writing a book terrified me. I was way too chicken to even start. But my best friend, who has infinite patience and zero tolerance for me overthinking everything, told me to just write 200 words. “It doesn’t matter if it’s rubbish,” she said. “Just write them. That’s all you need to do.”

So I did.

Those 200 words were messy, dark, awkward, and yes — probably rubbish. But they were mine. And slowly, slowly, they grew. Piece by piece, scene by scene, they became a full manuscript. Writing The Weight of Living was, honestly, one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Writing the darker scenes, exposing thoughts and fears I’ve carried for years, was brutal. But writing the romantic scenes was almost worse — knowing my mum might read them gave me a whole new level of nerves.

And yet… here I am, holding a fully published book that came from those first tiny, terrified steps. I can’t even describe the mix of pride, relief, and utter disbelief I feel looking at it. That book is my heart on paper, the parts of me I’ve struggled to express finally finding a voice.

I’m sharing all of this because I know life is messy. I know it’s hard to find time for dreams when you’re working full-time, parenting, and just trying to survive the day-to-day. I know what it’s like to feel unseen, unheard, and stuck in your own head. But I also know what it’s like to start small — to write 200 words, to make one tiny step, and to see it grow into something you never imagined possible.

So that’s my story, in a nutshell. Overwhelmed, chaotic, messy, sometimes terrifying… but also full of hope, love, and the kind of stubborn determination that keeps you writing even when you don’t feel like it.

Thanks for reading. If you ever feel like life is too heavy, or your thoughts too loud, or your dreams too far away, I hope you can take comfort in knowing that tiny steps matter. Sometimes, 200 words at a time is enough to change everything.

— Rhi