Why this picture of my son haunts me as a single mum

I’ve always been pretty good at doing hard things, and I don’t say that lightly.

I’m a single mum. I run my own business. I’ve built a career from scratch.

I can organise an eight-day road trip through New Zealand’s South Island with military precision, negotiate partnerships with tourism operators, drive a campervan I’d never driven before and somehow still remember to pack snow boots, chargers and the collections of squishies that absolutely couldn’t be left behind.

Capability has become second nature. Somewhere along the way, people started describing me as “strong”. I took it as a compliment. I still do.

But standing on top of Coronet Peak in New Zealand recently, watching my 10-year-old son disappear into the deepest snow he’d ever seen, I realised something I’d never quite been able to put into words.

Strength and longing aren’t opposites. Sometimes they exist at exactly the same moment.

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Death by a thousand cuts: The pain of letting go of your adult child

The birth of my love of travel

It’s safe to say travel has always been my first love. Some of my happiest childhood memories aren’t attached to birthdays. They’re attached to places.

Camping with my dad. The smell of rain on canvas. My grandparents taking me overseas every year. The excitement of waking up somewhere I’d never been before.

Travel wasn’t something my family did. It was how we connected.

When I became a single mum, I promised myself that just because our family looked different, it didn’t mean Albie’s childhood had to feel any smaller.

If anything, I wanted to show him even more of the world.

Motherhood didn’t replace my wanderlust. It simply gave it a travelling companion.

The dream becoming a reality

For more than 20 years I’d dreamed of hiring a campervan and driving New Zealand’s South Island.

I’d imagined the mountains. The winding roads. The freedom. I’d imagined pulling over wherever we liked, opening the back doors and simply watching the world.

What I hadn’t imagined was the weight of being the only responsible adult.

As we boarded our Air New Zealand flight from Sydney, I felt excited. But if I’m honest, I also felt terrified. The itinerary was full. The campervan looked huge and I’d never driven anything like it before.

Every decision sat with me. Every wrong turn. Every booking. Every meal. Every “What happens if...?”

The pressure wasn’t coming from anyone else. It was coming from me. I wanted this trip to be everything I’d promised Albie it would be.

Collecting the keys to our RV felt strangely emotional. I’d waited more than 20 years for this moment.

For Albie, it was simply “the coolest campervan ever.” For me, it represented freedom. It also represented responsibility.

There were moments I’d look across at another family and see the dad putting up the awning, lighting the barbecue or confidently reversing the camper into a tight spot, and I’d think, “That would be nice.”

Not because I wasn’t capable. Because carrying every single decision on your own is exhausting.

I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than I probably needed to. I worried about flat tyres, narrow roads, reversing, parking. Every tiny decision felt enormous because there wasn’t another adult to share it with.

But by the third day, something shifted. The camper stopped feeling intimidating. It started feeling like home.

Every evening we’d climb into bed, crank up the heater and replay the day together.

Those conversations became my favourite part of the trip. Not the mountains or the activities. Just us. Warm. Safe. Talking.

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It ‘takes a village’ to raise a child – and new mums are finding it in an unlikely place

Travelling has taught me that the best itineraries are the ones you’re prepared to let unravel.

As a single mum, there are moments when I become acutely aware I’m the only adult carrying the responsibility.

Then someone quietly reminds you that wonderful role models are everywhere. Sometimes they appear for 20 minutes. Sometimes that’s enough to leave a lifelong impression.

And then came a moment at Coronet Peak when Albie disappeared into the snow before I’d even zipped up my jacket. I watched him throw himself onto the ground, laughing so hard he could barely stand. And instinctively...

I turned. I wanted to catch someone’s eye. To say, “Can you believe this?”

There was no one there. That moment caught me completely off guard.

Not because I wished my life looked different. I don’t. I love the life Albie and I have built. I am immensely proud of it. But I realised something I don’t think we say out loud enough.

Being fiercely independent doesn’t mean you stop wanting someone to witness the magic with you. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.