When my parents eventually got back together, it didn’t immediately smooth out my relationship with my mum. What improved it was accepting that we were both trying our best to work out who we were and what we should do about it. Neither of us had the answers. But it’s much easier if you show those who love you some understanding. Learning to see my mother as a person, rather than my “fat head” oppressor, was one of the greatest gifts of my twenties. My steely prison guard became my friend. My only regret is that if we had talked more honestly at the time, before the diary incident, we could have reached an understanding far sooner. We could have done things differently to help pacify the pain we were both experiencing as we tackled the pressures of womanhood – albeit at different stages. Now, we’re both making much more of an effort to talk. And, if I’ve got a problem, my mum is the first person I ask for advice, because I know that even if I don’t agree with her, at least she’s walked my path before, and that experience always counts for something.