Rachaele Hambleton: The Part of Motherhood Nobody Warns You About
Mother of six Rachaele Hambleton (@parttimeworkingmummy) reflects on the messy, beautiful, and unspoken side of family life—the love that builds us, the struggles that shape us, and the laundry baskets that break us at 2pm on an ordinary Saturday.
The Friday That Changed Everything
I gave birth to my eldest daughter, Betsy-Mae, on a Friday in August 2004, after a traumatic 28-hour labour. I needed blood transfusions and a lot of aftercare. I was only twenty-two, and already three years into an abusive relationship with a man nearly a decade older than me. I had met him when I was nineteen and fresh out of foster care; he moved his bags in overnight, and I became a step-mum to his three children, all under the age of six. From the very beginning, I was drowning.
Now, at forty-three, when I look at my twenty-one-year-old daughter, still so young, I often think: When I was your age, I was already pregnant with you and trapped in an abusive relationship. The love I feel for that younger version of me is overwhelming. I was so vulnerable, trying to navigate my way through the impossible with minimal support or awareness of the situation I was in.
Six Bags and Freedom
Despite everything, the moment Betsy was born, I was hit with overwhelming feelings for her that I couldn’t begin to explain. I was utterly obsessed. I couldn’t cope with the amount of love I felt for her; I wanted to wrap her in cotton wool and protect her for the rest of my life.
For the next six years, we lived in that home. I gave birth to my second daughter, Tallulah-Belle, and by Christmas 2010, I finally fled with the girls. We left with six black bags, a single mattress, and Betsy’s black cat, Missy. We moved into a dated, cold ground-floor flat. Over time, donations came through, Sunday car-boot sales became our lifeline, and I visited a second-hand furniture shop in Paignton every payday. It wasn’t much, but it was ours—and for the first time since becoming a mother, the air wasn’t heavy with fear.
“For the first time, we could watch movies on the sofa under a blanket without him kicking off. We could eat whatever we fancied for dinner. I could drive them safely, without screaming or swerving. Looking back, I survived most of that time because I had the company of my six-year-old daughter.”
Betsy blossomed. Overnight, the behaviour calls from school stopped. She made friends and laughed more. But in hindsight, she grew up far too quickly. When you’re trying to co-parent with a perpetrator, children have no choice—it’s a war you never chose to fight. Betsy stepped in as the protector of her baby sister in my absence. It was too much, it was never okay, and it’s something I live with every day, despite knowing it was out of my control.
Loving Chaos
Eventually, a lifeline came: a fully refurbished rental where I finally felt safe. Then, in 2014, I met Josh—the love of my life. He arrived with his two sons, I had had a third baby daughter from another brief relationship, and suddenly we were a household of five children under ten.
Life was absolute chaos—breakfast clubs, holiday clubs, overtime shifts, and playdates—but it was safe, loving chaos. Betsy was like a second mum to her siblings, plaiting hair, helping with breakfast, and leading the pack. In 2019, our family was made complete when our youngest, Wilby, was born. We spent years in a whirlwind of netball, gymnastics, football, and boxing, rushing through baths and dinners, opening our doors to half the neighbourhood at weekends.
And then, in what felt like seconds, they all grew up. As we’ve shared previously in our Part Time Working Mummy interview, navigating life with a big blended family is full of learning as you go, finding your rhythm together, and making room for everyone’s needs along the way.
The Part No One Warns You About
At twenty, Betsy left home. She worked three jobs for a year, saved £12,000, and flew to Bali, Thailand, and on to Australia—where she has now been for almost a year with no immediate plans to return.
Nothing prepares you for that kind of departure. You feel a burning pride as they wave goodbye at the boarding gate, immediately followed by suffocating grief. Coming home from the airport, I found a handwritten card on her bed: “Mum, it’s her first time living too… remember we see the same sunrise and sunset just at different times.” I buried my face in her pillow and wept. It sent me straight back to 1998, closing the door on my first bare bedsit after leaving foster care. Even with five kids and my husband in the house, the empty nest hit with ferocious loneliness.
The Laundry Basket
The grief of parenting ambushes you in the most ordinary moments. To keep up with our mountain of washing, each child has their own labelled laundry basket. Weeks after Betsy left, hers sat completely empty. Untouched.
One spring afternoon it gutted me so deeply that I shoved it into the back of the garden shed just to stop looking at it. Six months later, during a clear-out, I pulled it out covered in dust and cobwebs. Seeing her name scrawled on the side broke me all over again. I cleaned it, sat on the garden step, cradled it like a newborn, and sobbed until I couldn’t catch my breath.
“Nobody warns you about this part—the grief of loving someone so much that watching them fly feels like losing a limb and growing a new heart all at once.”
People prepare you for sleepless newborn nights, toddler meltdowns, and teenage attitudes. But no one tells you about the heartbreak and pride that collide when your child proves they can live happily without you. So to anyone currently enduring broken sleep with a toddler or head-in-hands moments with a teenager: hold on tight. One day, you’d give anything to go back.
And to Betsy: I am in awe of the life you are building on the other side of the world. You were the first person I ever fell in love with. Until I see you again, remember we see the exact same sun.
