She Made Me Write It. She Didn’t Live to See It. This Is for Her.

If you’ve ever had a friend who knows you better than you know yourself, who shows up exactly when you need them, glass in hand and no tolerance for self-pity then you’ll understand what Helen meant to me.

Helen didn’t ask if I wanted to write a book.

She told me I had to.

She turned up one evening with a bottle of Chablis and the kind of look that said, “Sit. You’re not getting out of this.”

“Right. Drink this,” she said, sliding the glass across the table like a prescription.

“I brought the good stuff because if I’m going to remind you of your recent life disasters, we’re doing it with my favourite wine. OK?”

Before I could protest, she began:

“First, insider trading. You. Investigated. Whilst on maternity leave. You were at home breastfeeding and they treated you like a criminal. Then told you it was all fine. Like a pat on the head fixes it.

“And let’s not forget, second time around, they engineered you out instead of honouring your legal maternity leave. Not just morally wrong, but medieval.

“And your husband, sepsis, breakdown, complete collapse. You weren’t just a partner. You were a nurse, a breadwinner, a PA and a parent all rolled into one.”

She took a sip, eyes locked on mine.

“Then you built your own business. Five CEO peer groups. Dozens of leaders. No funding. No safety net. Just grit. Coaching men through multi-million-pound decisions while juggling school concerts and traybakes. (Fine. Shop-bought. But you turned up.)"

She paused for breath. I braced myself.

“And don’t get me started on the high court case, the surveillance, the bins, the sheer audacity of it all. And still, you led. You earned. You kept showing up.

“Then, just to top it off, you dated a man who went through three strokes, a brain bleed, heart failure, bankruptcy and was desperately waiting for a kidney transplant.

“And through all of this, the delightful menopause arrived to make things even more interesting. You couldn’t make this up.”

She leaned forward, serious now.

“But you lived it. So, write it. Promise me.”

I did. I promised. And I meant it.

Helen never got to see my book. She died last year, suddenly, tragically and far too soon. 

But her voice, her wit, her fire, her absolute belief in me is stitched into every page.

This book began with her, but it isn’t just for her.

It’s for the woman leading a team or company by day and a meltdown by night.

For the leader quietly falling apart while holding everyone else up.

For the high achiever who’s ticking all the boxes and still wondering, “Is this it?”

It’s for the ones who’ve sat in board meetings while barely holding it together.

Who’ve answered school WhatsApps whilst signing contracts.

Who’ve held the emotional load for everyone, then cried alone in the car, clutching a cold coffee, wondering if they were the only one feeling this way.

You’re not.

This book was born from that chaos.

Not to glamorise it. Not to wallow in it.

But to make space for truth.

For the mess behind the ambition.

The ache behind the competence.

The raw, unvarnished story behind what looked like strength.

Beautiful Chaos isn’t just a memoir.

It’s a reckoning. A release. A reminder that what breaks us doesn’t define us, but what we build next just might.

And yes, there’s wine.

There’s swearing.

There’s inappropriate humour and uncomfortable honesty.

Because that’s how we got through it.

This is for Helen.

And it’s for you.