Day 4 Listening, Healing and Letting go

Day 4 – Listening, Healing, and Letting Go

Good morning, lovelies,

I’d promised myself that Day 4 would be a gentle one. Part of being here is about listening to both my body and my mind — resting when I need to, giving myself quality time, and doing the shadow work that I never seem to make space for at home.

I woke around 8, enjoyed a leisurely breakfast on the patio while writing, and then had a lovely visit from Anja. The day before I’d treated myself to a yoga mat, determined to bring back some healthy habits that I’ve let slip over the past year. Between lack of energy, time, and a habit of not prioritising self-care, it had all gone missing. But that morning, I unrolled the mat and managed 30 minutes of very hot yoga. It felt amazing, and I’ve promised myself at least 20 minutes of practice every day while I’m here.

The rest of the morning was slow — a little meditation, a little pottering — before I finally headed out around 4:30.

Now, Wednesdays here are tricky for taxis because most of them are at the airport, so I decided to be brave. I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and tried something I haven’t done since I was 19 and wearing Daisy Dukes… (See video below!)

It went surprisingly well. A kind German lady took me halfway, and then a wonderful Greek woman called Aphrodite picked me up and carried me the rest of the way into Scala. I was honestly quite proud of myself for doing something that made me nervous.

By the time I reached the beach it was still scorchio, so I dived straight into the sea. The water here feels so magical — like slipping into the arms of the Element of the West itself. I felt it washing away old blocks and rigidity, guiding me gently back into the flow of life.

Although I’m an earth sign with hardly any water in my chart, I’ve always felt water is my element. I’m happiest by the sea or on the canal in my beloved narrowboat. It’s where peace finds me.

After my swim, I stopped by to see Dimitri, a jeweller I met last year who makes the most beautiful pieces. Last summer, I bought a silver bow-and-arrow necklace from him, a symbol of Artemis, one of my go-to Goddesses. This time, my eyes went straight to his cowrie shell jewellery.

The cowrie is sacred to Yemaya, Mother of the Ocean, and symbolises divine femininity, protection, and abundance. Naturally, I came home with some — we witches do love our talismans, and these are not only powerful but very pretty.

The evening was spent with my new friend Storm over a delicious Greek dinner by the sea, followed by a wander through Scala. I caught up with Stacey, whose bar will host my workshops this year, and BeRn, a fabulous Irish singer and poet who splits her time between Lesvos and Ireland. Scala is full of characters, the kind of place where you can be completely yourself. These two women are shining examples of that.

Stacey and BeRn

But this trip isn’t just about sea swims and jewellery — it’s also about healing.

As many of you know, I didn’t have the safest of childhoods. My mum struggled with addiction, and my brother and I grew up in neglect and abuse. The deepest wound of all has always been the “mother wound.” My mum died suddenly in 1999 at just 51. For too many years I’ve carried anger and disappointment that she couldn’t care for or protect us the way a mother should. But at nearly 60, I no longer want to carry that weight.

I brought a photo of my mum and me to Greece, and I’ve been spending time talking to her — through my cards, through the evening breeze. I’ve asked my Patron Goddesses to open my heart to forgiveness and understanding.

Here’s what I’ve realised: My mum, Jennifer, was magical once. She was beautiful, artistic, always painting, always dancing with music playing. She had her scars though — her own painful childhood, then postnatal depression after my brother’s birth. In the 1970s, the mental health system’s “solution” was electric shock therapy and handfuls of pills. Slowly, addiction stole the vibrant woman she was. Alcohol followed, and we lost her bit by bit.

One memory that still haunts me is from when I was about 14. We were living in some holiday flats we’d managed to secure just for the winter months, off-season. At the time, my mum was with a cruel man named Geoff, who had taken it upon himself to “cure” her addictions by flushing all her tablets down the toilet. One afternoon, as usual, she was in bed. I popped my head around the door, expecting to see her sleeping, when something caught my eye — the bedding looked darker than I’d ever seen it. At first I thought it was new sheets, but when I looked closer, I realised the truth: it wasn’t fabric at all, it was blood. My mum had cut her arms and wrists.

By some miracle, an ambulance arrived in time and she survived. But nothing was ever said afterwards. It was brushed under the carpet, as though it hadn’t happened. That image of her, lying in that bed, is seared into my memory and still visits me in my dreams.

I won’t rewrite every detail here, but I’ll share this: my mum was failed. By the doctors, by the system, by so-called friends. It wasn’t that she didn’t love us — she simply couldn’t care for us anymore because she was broken and lost.

If I had a TARDIS, I’d go back and simply be her friend.

Here in Greece, I’ve found a new level of forgiveness. I see her now not just as “my mum who failed,” but as Jennifer — a young woman who struggled, who was vulnerable, who didn’t get the help she deserved. I’m grateful for what she did give me: creativity, intelligence, humour, a love of music, and a big heart.

And I can finally admit something I haven’t said in decades: I miss her, and I love her very much. Writing that brought tears — my first in 26 years for my mum — and it feels like a release I’ve been waiting for.

Me and Jennifer, my beautiful Mama 1970

So, apologies if you came here for lighthearted holiday antics — but this is my truth. I’m here to heal, to let go of what no longer serves me. If you too carry wounds like this, know that release is possible. Peace is possible.

Thank you for reading my deepest thoughts. Tomorrow, I promise, I’ll do something fun to make you smile.

Brightest blessings,

Bex ✨