The Myth of Susanna - the making of a 'difficult woman.'

C N McGrail - women's writes — Sun, 05 Apr 2026 13:33:05 GMT

Every family has its stories. The ones told and retold until they harden into truth.

In this episode, I begin to unravel the myth of my great-grandmother, Susanna—a woman I’ve come to see as both extraordinary and deeply unknowable. According to family lore, she rose from poverty, bought land, built a house, and created a thriving business against all odds. But the deeper I look, the less certain that story becomes.

Where did the money come from? How did she really live? And why was she remembered, by some, as a “difficult woman”?

What emerges isn’t a clear narrative, but something more complex: fragments, contradictions, and inherited beliefs passed down through generations. Alongside this, I begin to notice patterns—of mental health, family conflict, and the ways women are judged—that echo uncomfortably into the present.

This episode is about more than one woman. It’s about how family myths are made, how they shape us, and what happens when we start to question them.

Because sometimes, the stories we inherit tell us as much about ourselves as they do about the past.

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“No Resurrection Without Her”

C N McGrail - women's writes — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 16:41:25 GMT

On Good Friday, we’re told a story about death and resurrection. But what if that story didn’t begin with Christianity—and what if, at its heart, it has always belonged to women?

In this episode, I step away from my family history to explore a different kind of inheritance: the ancient, often hidden, feminine thread running through the story of Easter. From Mary Magdalene—the first witness to the resurrection—to far older myths of goddesses who descend into darkness and return transformed, a deeper pattern begins to emerge.

This is a story about cycles: light and dark, life and death, loss and renewal. It’s a story written not just in scripture, but in the turning of the seasons, the waxing and waning of the moon, and the quiet resilience of the natural world.

What if resurrection isn’t a single miracle, but something we all experience—again and again—throughout our lives?

This episode is a reflection on rebirth, the power of the feminine, and the ancient truths we may have forgotten—but still feel, somewhere deep within us.

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“Her Life Was Sorrow and Suffering”

C N McGrail - women's writes — Sun, 29 Mar 2026 12:48:44 GMT

This is the transcription: Hi, this is Caroline. Welcome to my 1st ever podcast post. Today I want to talk about a new writing project that I've embarked upon, which started in November, and I've been writing it since the New Year. What inspired me to write this was a need to tell the story of normal, ordinary women from the past, our ancestors, those who came before us, just ordinary women with extraordinary lives. It all began for me when I visited my mother's grave. She's buried in a small churchyard, in England, in the middle of nowhere. next to a beautiful church with a wooden tower, an old bell tower, that really looks as if it shouldn't be standing any more. In the same graveyard are the graves of my grandparents, Ada, Tricker, and her husband, Harold Tricker. Ada was one of the most important people in my life. She really fulfilled the role of mother when my mum wasn't able to. So on the day I went to visit my mother's grave. I stood there, and I spoke to her, as I do, these days, with forgiveness, and patience, and solidarity, for all the things that I now see she went through as a young woman, and when she was my mother, and then, I went to visit my grandmother, Ada. I stood on her grave. It is boxed in with a low wall, very low to the ground, green stones, and all around other graves of others. Some who share her same name, married name. I stood there and I saw that my dad. My kind and dutiful father had been to the grave to lay flowers on his mother-in-law's grave. So this is the grave of my mother's mother. And I saw that he'd done his best. There on the grave was a large 4 litre plastic bottle, which he had put some flowers in. It wasn't very beautiful. It wasn't particularly ornate. It was just there, functionally. And I said to granny, "You know what, granny, he's done the best he can, but you deserve more than this." So I stood on her grave, and I actually bought a urn, a flower vase for graves, modern graves, that hold flowers and don't tip over. I stood there and I used Amazon and I ordered a vase and she would have been absolutely astounded that that's something that you could do. My grandma was born in 1912. So for her, the idea of standing outside, ordering something, which would arrive the following day, would just have completely blown her mind. And a few days later, of course, the vase arrived, and I needed to take it to the grave. So I returned there, put the flowers in it, placed it in the ground. And whilst I was there, I felt very drawn to step inside that old church. So, I went up to the door, low, wooden door, surrounded by ancient stones, some of which you could see, were those, perhaps, of the Roman villas that once stood in this area, and also stones that were made from shells from the near by coast line. An incredible church, very cold inside. It was November. At the back of the church was a display, lest we forget, a display for Remembrance Day, and I stood, and I thought it was a time to remember, all those people who had walked through that church before me, those members of my family, who had walked through that church before me. And I remembered being there, attending my own mother's funeral, and the funeral of my grandmother. And the funeral of my grandfather, Harold, although I don't remember that particularly well. I was a child when he died. As I walked around the church, I really felt the footsteps of my ancestors. I felt them sitting there in those old wooden pews which probably haven't changed for two hundred years, or more. As I went to the back of the church, back to the door, back to return to the graveyard, I saw her book, a laminated book on a table, and next to the table was a pair of glasses, just a pair of glasses, reading glasses, and I felt that this was telling me that I needed to look inside the book, and so I did. I searched it for familiar names, for family names, names that would resonate with me, and eventually I found something, a profound. And moving, type message, which I realised, was the wording on my great grandmother's grave. My great grandmother, Susanna. And here are the words that I read. In loving memory of Susan Tricker, dearly beloved wife of Shadrach Tricker, died 26th June, 1934, aged 66 years. Her life was sorrow and suffering. But sorrows and sufferings here will only make her richer there, at rest, dear mother. This really spoke to me. I thought to myself, Who would have a gravestone with those words on? Certainly no man? Would have those words on his gravestone? And so I decided that it was a calling. It was an opportunity. It was a voice from the past telling me that I needed to investigate further. I needed to look into the life of this woman, whose last memory, whose parting message, whose shadow was sorrow and suffering. And I wondered who could have laid that grave, who could have afforded to have those words, etched into a gravestone. I went out into the grounds of the church and I found her stone. It was near to my grandparents, and surrounding it were the graves of her other children, her many other children. She had 12 children in her lifetime, 11 of whom survived. And I found the words, on her grave, very low to the ground, a long, a stone barrier, which separates her grave from others. I moved the moss away in the grass, and I looked more closely. And I said to her, "Susan, Susanna, I will find your story. I will investigate it. I will write that story." I will help myself and others to understand the life of a woman who was sorrow and suffering. What could it have been in her life that made her that way? I already knew many things about her life, many of which were myth, I'm sure. And as I dig further, I uncover the fact that there are mysteries yet to be solved. And so that's where my writing began, on that November day. That day, standing in a silent graveyard, in Essex, in the middle of nowhere. Amidst the marshes, amidst the grasses. Amidst the darkening skies of November, the mist, the harsh weather. And I thought, I will look into her life and I will tell her story.

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C N McGrail - women's writes Podcast

The Myth of Susanna - the making of a 'difficult woman.'

“No Resurrection Without Her”

“Her Life Was Sorrow and Suffering”