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I’ve learned this the hard way: having years in care, a folder full of certificates, and all the right qualifications doesn’t automatically make someone a good carer. I’ve met people with decades of experience who could recite policies word for word — yet somehow missed the most important part of the job: the person in front of them. And I’ve met people new to care, still finding their feet, who brought more compassion, common sense, and heart into a room than anyone else. Be

Separation is often talked about like it’s a single moment: a decision, a conversation, a door closing. But for me, it hasn’t been a neat event. It’s been a process — messy, layered, and honestly, deeply revealing. When my nine-year relationship ended — a relationship marked by emotional betrayal and relational harm — I didn’t just lose a partner. I lost a version of myself I’d built around endurance . Around holding things together . Around believing that love meant staying,

Today, a carer made a mistake. And I didn’t shout. Today, one of our carers made an error. Nothing that caused harm, but enough to matter. Enough to pause, assess, and put right. What surprised them most wasn’t the mistake. It was that I didn’t shout. And that got me thinking. In complex care, mistakes will happen. We work in high-pressure environments, with long shifts, detailed protocols, and real human lives depending on us. The goal is not perfection — the goal is safety.

People talk about teamwork like it’s a personality trait. Like you either “have it” or you don’t. In complex care, I don’t see it that way. Teamwork is not a vibe. It’s not matching uniforms and a group photo. It’s the operational system that protects a vulnerable person day after day, shift after shift, no matter who is on duty. When care is delivered in someone’s home, you don’t have the same buffers you have in a hospital or a large service. There isn’t a big team down the