The Falcon, the pushchair, and a box of jewellery
On letting things go to make room for what’s coming
🚐 I sold a campervan.
Her name was The Falcon. A VW Transporter that we bought during the pandemic and converted with a company called Tribe — who are wonderful, and who we are heartbroken to have had to sell her back to. But she’s with people who love her. That’s what matters.
We bought The Falcon in 2020, during the fertility years. Everyone was doing something a little crazy during Covid — that was ours. We’d been away with our dog in a horrible lodge and decided he deserved better. We had money at the time, because we didn’t have a child yet, and we were throwing both money and energy at anything that would give us a break from the weight 🪨 of the journey. The Falcon was a beautiful distraction. A two-toned van that we took to the countryside to allow us to breathe.
We hired her out for three successive seasons using GoBoony. We barely saw her through the summer and earlier autumn seasons, she was barely home before she was booked again. She was so popular that she almost ran herself without us — which sounds like success, and it was, but it also meant sixteen weeks of washing, cleaning, prepping and communicating with clients. But Falcon started to take me away from my little one, the joy in my world 🌍, the light that come from a very dark space.
Falcon was made to be driven. I needed to let her go and do what she was made to do.
So we did. It’s a relief, honestly. Financial and practical. But there’s something else in it too, a recognition that we bought her during one chapter and we’re in a different one now. The Falcon was part of the fertility years. She served her purpose beautifully.
👩🍼The pushchair went the same week.
A Cosatto Special Edition Wow 2 Nature Trail, chosen at a baby show four months before my daughter arrived. My parents bought it. We’d all gone together, which felt significant at the time. I’d done my research on style and practicality, my husband had done his research on height (he has expensive taste and needed to be comfortable), and we both test drove it and loved it. We’d been waiting a very long time to do exactly that.
He built it when it was delivered. Carefully. The way he does everything. My mother insisted it had to be kept at her house until the baby arrived — superstition. We weren’t superstitious people. We’d been through too much to have the luxury of superstition. But we let her have it.
That pushchair became my crutch. Not a metaphor — it was literally my crutch and a safe space to be with my little one. I had a c-section and my body took over two years to heal properly. There were days when I would not have made it out of the house without something to lean on. That pushchair got me out. It got both of us out. My daughter looked up at the animal print on the hood and I walked, bent over and slowly, toward something like recovery.
It was a crutch for a good few years. My body took over two years to heal properly. That pram was what got me out and about.
She’s outgrown it now. We’re selling it back to Cosatto through their buy-back scheme and putting the money toward a car seat for the next stage.
The sadness in letting the pushchair go is real. It’s the end of something. Not just the pushchair — the baby stage, the early years, the particular version of motherhood where everything is very small and very close. I have a growing toddler who is taking over the house with her things, her energy, her curiosity about everything. I love 🥰 it.
Including my jewellery 📿💍 box.
She found it recently. Got into it the way she gets into everything — completely, without warning, with total commitment. It reminded me what was actually in there. I’d been keeping pieces for years without really knowing why. Things I’d bought chasing trends that didn’t suit me. Things that had no sentimental value but that I’d never quite got around to doing anything about.
I remembered my parents using a jeweller to value my grandparents’ pieces after they passed. So I hopped onto a tram and went into my local city, I was meeting a friend for lunch, so why not take the jewellery with me and had it appraised.
A small box was worth a few hundred pounds I wasn’t expecting.
I banked it. And then, a few weeks later, while we were working through the tech stack for the website — the Squarespace subscription, the domain, the hosting — I realised the jewellery money would cover a year of it. The whole year.
My three-year-old, by getting into my jewellery box, funded my business launch without knowing it.
She’s pointing me in directions I hadn’t even thought of. I’m so proud of her curiosity.
The fertility journey taught me not to carry things that aren’t serving me anymore. Not objects, not weight, not other people’s expectations of what I should want. I used to buy things because they were trending. I want to build a life now where I can buy what suits Becky — what actually represents who I am. The values that I live by.
I am building two businesses. 🧡 Create & Cope 💚 launching in the summer of 2026. It will be a space to create, a place to cope for those navigating the fertility journey. Somewhere to feel seen. Somewhere to belong, briefly, to people who already understand. Somewhere to cope with the weight of the fertility journey — and to create what you need to get through it.
It launches this summer. If you’re navigating this — or you know someone who is — subscribe to stay with it.
My second business is 🩷 Becky Cann Coaching 🩵, an emotions-led coaching practice, for those navigating life that may take different paths than from what we original planned. For those that might be navigating the fertility path, for those that may have navigated it a long time ago, but never fully processed it or put it somewhere. For those that want to put it down somewhere, to be seen to be acknowledged, to finally grieve for the loss you may have had.
My new businesses are the weights I’m choosing to carry. New ones. Mine.
The Falcon played her part. The pushchair played hers. The jewellery, it turns out, had been waiting for exactly this moment.
With warmth
Becky
x
