Winter, waiting, and the shape of independence
By Bec Glover
There’s a moment each year, usually overnight, when the season shifts. The air changes, the mornings feel different, and there’s a stillness that wasn’t there before. Winter arrives quietly, almost without asking, inviting us to slow down, to come inside, to gather close. And in that slowing, thoughts find their way in.
For me, winter carries a deeper meaning. It brings me back to Stanthorpe, Qld, a place that became a kind of home away from home. A place I took Ruby during her sixteenth year here on earth, a year we quietly held as though it might be her last. There was something about the crisp air, the stillness, the sense of stepping away from everything we knew, that created space to simply be together. To breathe. To hold each moment with a different kind of awareness.
Now, in her seventeenth year, we will return.
And with that comes a reflection not just on time, but on everything that sits beneath it.
We speak so often about independence, growing into adulthood, planning for the future, reaching milestones that signal freedom. For many families, it’s something long anticipated and deeply celebrated. A breath of relief after years of holding everything together. But for some of us, the story looks different.
I find myself asking questions that don’t have easy answers. Where will my Ruby be after school? What does independence even look like for her? She won’t leave my side or my sight, not in the way the world defines independence, and maybe she never will.
There’s a kind of hypervigilance that becomes part of your being when you’re raising a child with complex needs. It’s not something you switch off at the end of the day, and it doesn’t soften with time. It lives in your body, in your breath, in the constant awareness that you are the one holding everything together. And I wonder if that ever truly leaves. Will there ever be a moment where I’m not “on”? Where I can fully exhale?
And I know I’m not alone in this.
I have walked beside families who live in a place of profound fatigue, where exhaustion seeps into every part of their being. Families who carry fear, not just for their child, but at times for their own safety, for their other children, for what each day might bring. Families navigating behaviours that feel so far removed from the tiny, innocent child they once held, grieving that version while fiercely loving the person in front of them.
There is a sorrow that sits quietly beneath it all. A grief for what was imagined, for what might never be, and for the vulnerability their child now lives within. And yet, at the very same time, these children, these young people, are simply longing for what we all long for: a safe and nurturing space to be. To be seen. To be held. To be known as someone’s loved one. To feel that they belong somewhere, that they have a place to call home.
Even when home itself can feel like it is being pulled apart.
These are the parents I know so well. The ones whose hearts hold both immense love and an unspoken ache. The ones who sometimes long, just for a moment, to escape the weight of it all, yet cannot fathom the thought of handing their child over to someone else to care for, to shelter, to guide into adulthood. The tension between needing relief and never wanting to let go is something few truly understand.
How does anyone move through this and live life that little bit lighter?
I don’t know that there is a clear answer.
A little while ago, I watched a bee die. It moved in small, uncertain circles, back and forth as if searching for something, a place of safety, a warm spot, somewhere to land. Then it turned onto its back, and, within seconds, it was gone. A body. A shell. A life that had been here, now not.
There was something sacred in that moment. Not sad in the way you might expect, but deeply still. It brought an awareness of how fleeting everything is, how quickly life can shift from movement to memory, and how sometimes there is searching without ever really knowing what we’re searching for.
Winter has a way of drawing these reflections out of us. It brings us inward and asks questions we often keep at bay during the busyness of other seasons. It’s the time of warm meals, blankets, and quiet nights. Of holding our loved ones a little closer. Of creating safety within our homes. But alongside that comfort, other thoughts begin to surface.
What happens if I’m not here? Who will love her the way I do? Who will understand her without words, advocate for her, protect her, and hold her through everything life brings?
These aren’t easy thoughts to admit, and yet they exist, quietly, persistently, in the lives of so many parents and caregivers.
And still, here we are.
In the stillness of winter, in the uncertainty, in the not knowing, still showing up, still loving, still holding.
Returning to Stanthorpe this year feels different. Not because the questions have been answered, but because we are still here to ask them. Still here to feel the crisp air, to wrap ourselves in warmth, to find comfort in simply being together. That place, once held with quiet fear, now holds something else too, gratitude, presence, and a deeper understanding of just how precious time is.
Maybe independence doesn’t look like letting go. Maybe, for some of us, it looks like something else entirely. It might be about building a world around our children where they are known, safe, and deeply understood, whether we are standing beside them or not. It might be about connection, trust, and the people we surround them with. It might be about redefining what a meaningful, supported life looks like.
Winter reminds us that seasons change, even when things feel still. That beneath the surface, life is quietly preparing for what comes next. That not everything needs to be resolved all at once.
Some things are simply held.
And perhaps that is where we find ourselves, not with certainty, not with all the answers, but with love. Endless, unwavering love. Holding our children close in this season, and whatever comes after.
About Bec
Rebecca (Bec) Glover is a mum, carer, and lifelong advocate for children with disabilities and their families. Her journey began through raising her daughter with profound and complex needs, giving her an intimate understanding of the daily realities, emotional load, and systemic barriers families face.
Drawing on this lived experience, Bec founded Ruby & Ollie’s All Abilities Childcare and later The Inclusion Network to create practical, compassionate solutions where mainstream systems fall short.
Bec now works alongside families, educators, and organisations to advocate for better systems, stronger support, and a future where every child, regardless of their needs, has the opportunity to be seen, supported, and included. Learn more at theinclusionnetwork.com.au
