The Bakers Adventures

She rushed in.

Flustered, cheeks pink from the cold, or maybe from the panic of being late. I don’t even need to ask; she’s already launching into an excuse, layering it with just enough detail to sound convincing. Traffic. A last-minute errand. Something out of her control.

But I know the truth.

“It’s okay,” I say before she can finish, smiling softly. “You were just late.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and I see the shame in her eyes. She thinks lateness is a flaw, a sign of failure. She doesn’t know yet that her brain is wired differently. That time slips through her fingers, not because she doesn’t care, but because she cares too much… too many thoughts, too many distractions, too much trying to be everything at once.

We both place our orders. 

She asks for a skinny latte, still convinced that smaller, less, restrained is better, more accepted. I order oat milk, choosing what feels good, what nourishes, conscious of how things make me feel rather than how they make me appear.

As we sit, I take her in.. the way she adjusts her posture, carefully crossing her legs, tilting her head just right. The full face of makeup, flawless but heavy. I see through it now… the foundation isn’t just covering her skin; it’s masking something deeper. 

Pain. 

Loneliness. 

The desperate need to appear fine. 

I used to think that if I looked put together, maybe I’d feel put together too.

“You don’t wear makeup?” she asks, almost disapprovingly, scanning my bare face.

“Not every day,” I shrug. “I like my face. I like how I feel when I don’t have to conform to what I used to think was expected of me.”

She looks down, tracing the rim of her cup. “I don’t know if I could ever do that.”

“You will,” I promise. 

“One day, you’ll see your own beauty without needing to paint over it. And you’ll realise that the real mask wasn’t just the makeup—it was the way you felt you had to be something you weren’t.”

She exhales, eyes flickering with something between doubt and longing.

She sits, fingers drumming against the table… impatient, fidgety, restless. 

I know that feeling.

“So… do I get better?” she asks eventually. “Do I stop being so… much?”

I reach across the table, taking her hand. “You don’t stop being much. You stop apologising for it.”

She holds my gaze, searching for certainty. I squeeze her fingers. I take a breath, knowing she needs to hear the truth. “You figure out that ‘right’ doesn’t exist. But you build something beautiful anyway.”

She tilts her head. “Tell me.”

“Motherhood will break you open,” I say softly. “It will make you question everything… your patience, your worth, your ability to do enough. And yet, you’ll stand in the doorway watching them sleep, and it will hit you… You are their home. No one else could be their mum the way you are.”

Her eyes widen, and I know she’s wondering if she’ll be good enough. “You won’t always feel like it, but you will be.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then shifts in her seat. “And me?”

I know what she’s asking. 

“You’ll realise you were never broken. Your mind works differently, and one day, you’ll understand why. ADHD won’t be something to ‘fix’.. It will be something to understand, to work with, not against. You’ll learn how to slow down, how to be kind to yourself, how to stop apologising for the way you are. And when you do… life will make so much more sense.”

She blinks back tears, biting her lip. 

“I wish I could skip to the part where I know all of that.”

“You don’t,” I say gently. 

“Because every messy, uncertain, overwhelming moment? That’s how you get here.”

She nods, tracing circles on the table. Then she looks up at me.. hopeful, braver now. 

“So… I make it?”

I squeeze her hand. “You don’t just make it. You make it yours. And, trust me, it’s more beautiful than you can imagine.”