The Many Hats We Wear.

If you asked me to describe my life in one sentence, I'd probably laugh and say, chaotic... but organised chaos.

As a full-time university student completing my Master's of Teaching, a mum to many, a volunteer within my children's school, someone who works part-time, and now an aspiring indie author writing and editing my debut fantasy novel, I often forget just how many hats I wear every single day.

Some days I feel like I change hats every fifteen minutes.

Teacher.

Student.

Employee.

Volunteer.

Writer.

Editor.

Mum.

Partner.

Taxi driver.

Cook.

Laundry fairy.

Snack distributor.

Mediator of sibling arguments.

The list goes on.

The funny thing is, I actually thrive in chaos.

I always have.

I don't sit still very well. Give me one project and I'll somehow find three more. My brain loves being busy. I love learning new things, challenging myself, chasing goals that seem just out of reach.

But there's a downside to being someone who thrives on chaos.

Eventually, chaos starts thriving on you.

Lately, that's exactly how I've been feeling.

At the moment, I'm completing a teaching placement while still studying full-time. I'm continuing to edit The Flame Beneath, which is currently with beta readers, trying to build an author platform, keeping up with social media, working, volunteering and, most importantly, trying to be present for my seven amazing children.

To say life has been hectic would be the understatement of the year.

The pressure I've put on myself lately has been enormous.

Not because anyone else expects it of me.

Because I do.

The Teaching Hat

Walking into a classroom you've never taught before is one of the most intimidating things I've ever done.

Everyone tells you that you'll learn on placement.

Everyone tells you you'll make mistakes.

Everyone tells you no one expects perfection.

Yet somehow, the moment you're standing in front of twenty-five pairs of eyes waiting for you to speak, every bit of that advice disappears.

Instead, your brain starts asking questions.

What if they don't listen?

What if I can't manage the behaviour?

What if they think I'm a terrible teacher?

What if I really don't belong here?

Teaching isn't just standing at the front of a classroom delivering lessons.

It's remembering who needs extra support.

Who struggles with reading.

Who needs movement breaks.

Who has anxiety.

Who works best with a friend.

Who needs quiet encouragement instead of public praise.

Who had a rough morning before they even walked through the classroom door.

You're trying to build relationships with children you've only just met while also proving—to yourself and your supervising teacher—that you can actually do this.

Some lessons feel incredible.

The students are engaged.

They're laughing.

They're learning.

You leave thinking, Maybe I really can become a teacher.

Then the very next lesson feels like complete chaos.

Nothing works.

Someone is climbing under a table.

Someone else forgot everything you explained two minutes ago.

Half the class seems to have suddenly forgotten how to whisper.

You walk back to your car wondering whether you've made the biggest career mistake of your life.

I've learned that's teaching.

Good days.

Hard days.

Tiny wins.

Bigger lessons.

And every teacher standing confidently in front of a classroom once stood exactly where I am now.

The Writing Hat

Then there's writing.

If you've followed my journey for a while, you'll know The Flame Beneath has become so much more than just a book.

It's become proof that I can actually finish something I once thought was impossible.

When I first started writing, I never imagined I'd complete an entire novel.

Now it's sitting with beta readers.

Something younger me never would've believed.

You'd think I'd be celebrating that.

Instead...

I'm overthinking everything.

Every notification makes me nervous.

Every piece of feedback has me convinced they're about to tell me I've wasted months of my life writing something nobody will ever want to read.

The reality couldn't be further from the truth.

My beta readers have been incredibly kind.

They're pointing out strengths.

They're highlighting characters they love.

They're giving thoughtful suggestions.

They're excited.

They're encouraging.

They're helping me make the story stronger.

Yet somehow my brain translates positive feedback into failure.

"If they found something to improve, it must be terrible."

"If I have to edit this scene, maybe the whole book doesn't work."

"Maybe it'll flop."

It's amazing how quickly our minds can convince us that progress somehow equals failure.

Editing isn't proof you've written a bad book.

It's proof you're making it better.

Every published novel has been edited.

Probably more times than we realise.

No one writes perfection in a first draft.

Or a second.

Or even a tenth.

That's the entire point of the process.

The Imposter Syndrome Nobody Talks About

I've realised something over the past few weeks.

Imposter syndrome doesn't disappear when you achieve something.

It just moves the goalposts.

When I started university, I worried I wasn't smart enough.

Now I'm worried I'm not good enough to teach.

When I started writing, I wondered whether I'd ever finish a manuscript.

Now I worry it won't be good enough to publish.

When I hit my first social media milestone, I wanted the next one.

Then the next.

Then another.

It's never enough because I'm constantly chasing the next version of myself.

The version that's somehow more organised.

More successful.

More confident.

More experienced.

More everything.

But that version doesn't exist.

There's only this version.

The one learning.

The one making mistakes.

The one slowly getting better every single day.

The Mum Hat

If there's one hat I never want to take off, it's being Mum.

Although I'll admit lately I haven't always worn it as well as I'd like.

When you're juggling everything else, your patience gets thinner.

You're tired.

Your brain never switches off.

You're mentally writing tomorrow's lesson while cooking dinner.

You're thinking about chapter edits while folding washing.

You're remembering assignment deadlines while someone is asking where their other school shoe has disappeared to.

I know my kids have probably seen a more exhausted version of me these past few weeks.

A mum who sometimes snaps quicker than she'd like.

A mum who forgets things.

A mum who falls asleep on the couch before making it to bed.

But they're also the reason I keep going.

They don't care whether my lesson plan was perfect.

They don't care whether chapter twelve needs another edit.

They don't care how many followers I have.

They just want hugs.

Stories.

Dinner together.

To tell me about the funny thing that happened at school today.

Children have an incredible way of reminding you what actually matters.

Sometimes all it takes is a hug from one of them to completely reset my day.

Learning to Accept Feedback

One lesson I'm trying really hard to learn is that feedback isn't criticism.

Feedback is growth.

Whether it's my supervising teacher helping me improve a lesson...

Or a beta reader pointing out a chapter that could be stronger...

Neither of those people are telling me I've failed.

They're investing their time because they believe I'm capable of doing even better.

That's an incredible gift.

Yet so many of us immediately hear feedback as confirmation we're not good enough.

Imagine if we looked at it differently.

Imagine seeing every suggestion as another stepping stone towards the person we're trying to become.

Not because we're failing.

Because we're growing.

Maybe We Expect Too Much of Ourselves

I think many of us are guilty of expecting perfection from ourselves while happily accepting progress from everyone else.

We'd never tell a friend to give up because they're still learning.

We'd never tell someone not to follow their dream because they made a mistake.

We'd celebrate every little milestone they reached.

So why don't we offer ourselves that same kindness?

Why do we expect ourselves to already be experts?

Why do we assume that struggling means we're failing?

Maybe struggling simply means we're learning.

Maybe feeling overwhelmed doesn't mean we're incapable.

Maybe it just means we're carrying a lot.

Tomorrow is Another Day

I'm writing this as much for myself as I am for anyone reading it.

Tomorrow I'll wake up and put all my hats back on.

I'll be a mum.

A student.

A teacher on placement.

A writer.

An editor.

A volunteer.

Some days I'll wear those hats well.

Other days they'll all feel too heavy.

And that's okay.

Because every lesson I teach, every assignment I submit, every chapter I edit, every piece of feedback I apply and every hug I give my children is moving me one step closer to the life I'm trying to build.

Maybe my debut novel won't be perfect.

Maybe my first year of teaching won't be either.

But perfection was never the goal.

Growth is.

So if you're reading this and you're also wearing too many hats right now, juggling work, family, study, dreams, or simply trying to keep your head above water, please remember this:

You're allowed to feel overwhelmed.

You're allowed to doubt yourself.

You're allowed to have hard days.

Just don't let those hard days convince you that you're incapable.

You're probably doing far better than you think.

Take the feedback.

Learn from it.

Give yourself the same grace you'd give someone else.

And remember that tomorrow is another chance to get just a little bit closer to the life you're working so hard to create.

Because dreams aren't achieved all at once.

They're built one ordinary, messy, exhausting, beautiful day at a time.