It was a Tuesday in October and I was stood in the WHSmiths at Stockport train station, trying to choose which three miniature bottles of sauvignon blanc would get me through the train ride back to London. The kind of train ride where you cry silently into your scarf and hope no one asks if the seat next to you is taken.
I’d just said goodbye to my parents. My nana—who was more like a mother to me, the woman who raised me, who knew how I liked my tea and what to say when the world felt too sharp—had died the week before. Lung cancer. Three months from diagnosis to goodbye.
And, because the universe likes to double down, I’d also just found out my boyfriend of five years had cheated on me. With two women. At a party. The kind of sentence that still feels bizarre to say out loud, like it belongs in someone else’s life, or a dodgy episode of First Dates.
I was tired in that full-body, soul-weary way grief brings. Tired of explaining how I was. Tired of well-meaning check-ins. Tired of the silence between rooms at home now that Nana was gone.
Which is probably why I’d started watching Molly-Mae’s vlogs. I wasn’t even a fan in the typical sense. But there was something about the rhythm of her life—the way she’d chat while folding laundry or doing her skincare—that offered a sort of structure. A soft, neutral voice in the background that didn’t demand anything of me. It was comforting. Like someone was still there, even when no one else really knew what to say.
And then—somehow—there she was. In person. Standing quietly near the magazines in that same WHSmith, just as I reached for the third mini bottle of wine. I recognised her instantly, but in that way where your brain doesn't quite compute it could actually be happening.
Collage: Cherish Yourself
A Quiet Moment in Stockport, miniature wines, heartbreak, and Molly-Mae
“Molly… is that you?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yes! Are you okay?”
It was the "are you okay?" that did me in.
Because I wasn’t. Not even close. And with my already teary eyes I think she could see that. My voice cracked. It all spilled out—not the whole messy story, not the party or the swinging or the hospital visits—but enough for her to know I was someone in pain.
And she stayed.
She talked to me. Really talked. Told me she’d also recently gone through a breakup. That it hurt. That she knew the kind of aching I was feeling. That heartbreak never lands quietly—it crashes in, loud and unwelcome, and flips your whole life inside out.
But also: that I would be okay. That this pain would become something else. Something that grows. That pushes you, eventually, into something better.
We spoke until my train came. It wasn’t a long time, but it was the kind of moment that stretches. She didn’t rush off. She asked about me, not just the situation. There was no performance in it, no gloss. Just two women, standing under the fluorescent lights, sharing a few quiet truths.
It struck me, then, how rare that is. For someone to pause their day and see you. Really see you. Especially someone who didn’t need to.
Molly-Mae may be known for makeup tutorials and designer wardrobes, but in that moment she was something else entirely. She was kind. Grounded. Human. She met me exactly where I was: heartbroken, grieving, holding three bottles of white wine, and trying to keep it all together.
That moment in Stockport train station might have looked small to anyone passing by. But it wasn’t. It was gentle. Reassuring. The kind of reminder you carry with you on a long train ride home.
So thank you, Molly. For stopping. For asking. For being a quiet light at the edge of a very dark time. You didn’t know the weight I was carrying—but somehow, you helped lighten it anyway.
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All opinions and observations are written reflections that are personal and subjective, not factual claims or advice. If you are struggling with your mental health, please seek support from a doctor or qualified health professional.
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