The Europe Challenge

And so it began.

A brand-new chapter; a step into the unknown.

The first blank page of an empty journal, pristine, pure, and full of promise.

Yet terrifying, nerve-wracking, and with so much potential for disaster.

 

The young woman was still relatively new to the area, having moved there just over a year before. Usually, that should have been plenty of time to settle in, get to know the neighbours, make new friends. But the shock of discovering she was pregnant just as they moved house, then her husband’s new job taking him away for days on end, had thrown her into turmoil. Her initial relief at being able to work from home had turned to despair as she realised just how isolated she felt. Everything had happened at once, combining to leave her feeling lonelier than she’d ever felt before, and now, with family and friends living so far away, she felt lost and abandoned.

 

After the baby was born, there had been a flurry of visitors, and her husband had changed his work pattern so he was around more. But even so, six months on she struggled to feel she was making any kind of progress. Her confidence had gone, and she could feel herself disappearing. Every day she started off with a determination to do more, to force herself to mix, to try to chat to a neighbour or join a class; every night she went to bed feeling she’d failed again. She didn’t recognise who she’d become. Something had to change.

 

An article in the local newspaper caught her eye one day. It mentioned various activities taking place at the nearby library and something sparked her interest. A parent and baby group with music and storytelling, the chance to mix with others, and maybe even make new friends. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a spark of excitement and optimism. It was only a 30-minute class, surely even she could manage that.

 

She waited for the child’s nap and tentatively picked up the phone. And before she knew it, she’d booked them on the next class. Her stomach somersaulted with a mixture of fear and excitement, feeling this was her greatest achievement in months, yet worrying she’d made a huge mistake.

 

When the day arrived, she felt sick with worry. She made a list of everything they’d need, checking and rechecking that she’d planned for every eventuality; this felt like an expedition rather than a trip to the local library, but she was desperate not to fail at her first attempt. She changed their outfits so many times, unsure what kind of image she was trying to project, but eventually they were ready. As they left the house, and headed down the road, she wondered how she’d be feeling on the return journey. Would there be a spring in her step and a cheerful smile on her face as they walked home? She hardly dared to hope.

 

As she walked, she thought things through, the fresh air and a change of scenery helping her to look at their situation more objectively. She knew she needed this. They needed this. To take those first brave steps from the comfort and sanctity of home, and their newly established routine: a routine so precious and hard-won after endless weeks of sleepless nights and exhaustion. It felt insane to risk disrupting that, yet she knew the time had come to start allowing in the outside world. This was to be their first brave venture together and she needed to swallow her fears and anxieties, and put her child’s needs first. She had to be brave for both of them.

 

She paused outside the grand old building and took a last deep breath for courage. She pushed open the heavy library doors, struggling to manoeuvre the pushchair and all her paraphernalia, a knot in her stomach, her hands clammy and tense. She painted on her best, most confident smile, this timid, anxious first-time mum, and silently prayed this wasn’t a huge mistake.

 

She ventured tentatively towards the desk and joined the short queue, the well-rehearsed script waiting on her lips. She took those few moments to compose herself, to steady her breath, to scan the room and find her bearings. She told herself she’d done well; so far so good. Don’t waver, don’t panic, don’t give up now.

 

As she waited, she became aware of how different this library felt from those she had used as a child: the silent studies, hushed voices, whispered requests, solemn places of learning and education. The atmosphere here felt altogether different: a hub of activities going on in different corners; it seemed bright, cheerful, and welcoming. It had a real sense of community, and she could feel herself relax a little.

 

And then, almost too quickly, it was her turn: and suddenly, waiting for her, was the loveliest, widest smile, the warmest welcome; an instant recognition of what it had taken for her to be there. A face she would come, in time, to search for, to recognise and be immediately calmed by. A comforting, supportive face that reassured her every time. A face that said: you’re doing just fine.

 

She was shown to the room that was already bustling with noise and activity, and lifted the child, leaving his pushchair near the others. Several faces turned towards her, some curious, others with a hint of a smile, or a whispered hello. Others were too busy chatting or tending to their babies to even register her arrival. She found a seat, adjusted their bags and belongings, and settled herself and her child, torn between feigning confidence and admitting her nervousness. She hoped a kindly face, a sympathetic soul would recognise her anxiety and come to her aid, praying that among this sisterhood, someone would take pity on her and take her under their wing.

 

It didn’t take long.

 

‘Is this your first time?’, asked an older mum nearby; she had a kind and caring expression, but with a look that said she was an old hand at this.

 

‘Is it that obvious?’, she replied with a nervous smile. ‘I’ve nearly talked myself out of this so many times this morning!’

 

‘Oh I know that feeling’, her companion said, ‘even now after three children, there’s times when I just admit defeat and don’t make it. But everyone here has been where you are now; we all remember how it felt the first time we came, when we didn’t know anyone. But stick with it; we’re a friendly group and you’ll soon feel at home’.

 

She felt the tears prickle and burn and inwardly begged them not to appear. But she felt instantly reassured and so much better after just a few kind words from a stranger. She knew instinctively that one day she would be the one to sit alongside a newcomer, offering words of encouragement. Even in that brief moment, she recognised that there was a cycle to this; the student becomes the teacher, the novice becomes wise and in turn passes on their calm wisdom and common sense, making a world of difference to the next generation of nervous new mums.

 

Soon, everyone settled and the class began. Nursery rhymes, stories, actions she tried and failed at first to learn—grateful for the child on her lap to hide her mistakes. Some songs she recognised, some were completely new to her, but over the coming weeks she would find herself singing them in her sleep. As she scanned the room she saw a mix of personalities; some new and self-conscious like her, some checking their phones or chatting while their toddlers did all the work. Two dads, the rest mums or grans, each with their own story, whose paths may otherwise never have crossed, yet each connected by this room, for this short time each week.

 

For some, this would be a precious escape from the mundane routine of washing and feeding. For others this had become their mundane routine: the weary participation in a weekly ritual they couldn’t get out of. Some looked vibrant, chatty, thrilled to be around friendly faces, others looked exhausted or preoccupied, counting the minutes until they could get on with their day. The rhythm of the class echoed the rhythm of their routine: library, baby classes, toddlers’ groups. She started to realise while some parents relished this one event a week, for others this was just a small part of a hectic schedule of activities, designed to stimulate and develop, never a moment to be wasted. Her mind started to wander as she considered which type of parent she would become.

 

Before she knew it the class was over. Everyone recognised the last song and joined in with a final flourish, while starting to gather their belongings together. A few were in a rush to leave and clearly had other commitments, but most hung around, chatting and mingling. The babies crawled around curiously wondering why the music had stopped; the older ones toddled, clutching books, towards their parents, demanding a story, pointing to pictures and recognising familiar characters. Friendships were being formed in front of her eyes, at every level. Tiny children who would grow to be the best of friends, who had a whole shared future ahead of them, who would frequently recount the story of how they met at a baby music group. Parents too, suddenly discovering the joy of new friendships, shared experiences, fluttering with excitement at the prospect of new companions with whom to share the journey.

 

She smiled a slightly more confident smile and said goodbye to a few of the mums as she left; she thanked her new companion for putting her at ease, and even said she looked forward to seeing her next week. Gathering her things together, she settled her sleepy son into his pushchair. As she headed out of the room and back towards the main library, the same smiling face that welcomed her a little while earlier was looking out for her.

 

‘How did you find it?’, she asked, genuinely interested. ‘It can be a bit daunting the first time, but they’re a friendly bunch, and it does get easier.’

 

‘Do you know, I actually surprised myself how much I enjoyed it’, she replied. ‘I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to be doing half the time, but just being around other people rather than being on my own with the baby day after day, I felt almost human again!’

 

‘Well don’t feel you have to wait for a class, you know’, the librarian said. ‘Call in anytime for a break or a chat. I know from my own experience with young children how isolating it can be. Even if it’s just for a change of scenery or to hear another voice, we’re here and you’d always be welcome.’

She felt the tears rise again, not quite able to believe how just a few kind words from strangers that morning had lifted her mood and transformed her whole outlook.

The librarian asked the child’s name, and, more importantly, remembered it. Over the coming months and years, he would learn hers, as would his brothers after him. She progressed from being ‘that kind lady at the big story house’ to becoming a trusted friend, a constant link throughout their childhoods. Bonds of friendship and support were formed that went beyond books and baby groups, and provided continuity and rhythm to their lives. In that moment, though she didn’t know it at the time, the first delicate links were formed in a chain that would grow and strengthen over the years to come.

As she made her way out of the library, she felt lighter somehow, like a weight had been lifted. She felt a real sense that this could be the start of something bigger, a feeling of belonging after so much isolation; a new member of a group she hadn’t even known existed. It triggered a realisation that there must be so many new parents, scared and uncertain, who were struggling on, day after day, not realising what support was there waiting for them. Not just the baby classes and music groups, but the warmth and safety and stability of a library: solid, reliable, and a place of refuge when the world feels overwhelming.

She took her time enjoying the walk home, feeling so different from how she’d felt just an hour or two before. She had a real sense that she and her child had almost become part of the library’s history, and it was part of theirs, and would remain so long after the library doors had closed.

As she returned to the safety of her home, she felt a new nugget of joy, optimism, and a huge sense of achievement.

Baby steps maybe, but such huge progress.

She picked up the sleeping child and held him close, nuzzling his warm skin.

‘We did it, little man; we did it.’

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About the Author

Barbara Beeston (b. 1959) is a 65-year-old retired Civil Servant living with her husband in North West England. She is a mother to one daughter and two stepsons and a proud grandmother of three young grandsons aged 3, 5, and 7. Barbara enjoys travelling, live music, theatre, and cinema and is currently exploring her interest in writing poetry and short stories.