The iron nearly broke me.

The last time I laughed with my mother was an October night in Vegas nearly nine years ago. The last time I cried with her was a few months later on the phone from a motel room in Mammoth - my heart broken by the man who I'd later call my husband. Within days, she fell into a coma. All I could do was cry for her until she passed, and then I cried for myself.

That was many years ago, but tears have returned. Like many others, I've been struggling to find work for quite some time. The industry of my youth, film and games, is a battered shell of what it used to be. My CV reads like a train wreck of closed studios and shuttered film houses. Not even the retail shops that I've worked in have been immune. If there really is a Midas whose touch turns to gold, then surely I'm his unwitting adversary.

With my first career on the skids - not just for me, but for many visual effects artists and producers - I've been seeking out roles using my other skills. Between project management, design, programming and marketing; I was sure I'd find my feet quickly. Each step though gets a little harder. Every rejection more difficult than the first. I've come at finding a job with an open mind.  I'm happy to try new things, but I've heard a constant chorus of nos. And yes, there are days that I feel sorry for myself.  When an old friend recently asked me what I wanted to do, I was dumbfounded. I no longer feel like I have any choice in the matter. I just want to work. I want to make a contribution.

Looking for a new job has been a struggle. It isn't something that I often bring up, because I'd rather be admired for my successes than judged by my failures. I try to remember how lucky I am. That man who was once scared to take my hand so many years ago, now holds it everyday and reminds me that I'm someone special. He gives me love. He gives us a home. I am so much more fortunate than those who must struggle alone. Although I feel deflated each time I must deflect the student debt collectors, I find my strength in his grasp.

That brings me to our iron. Wednesday, as I was doing a final pressing my new handbag.  My iron started spitting rust. After a long haul, the Breville had reached the end of its rope.  As the rust stains seeped from the soleplate, I finally let go of everything that I'd been holding in - tears of a girl, no longer young, who longed for love of her mother.

Amy Gunson, 39, is the writer of this craft and travel blog. She lives a blessed life in Sydney with her husband, Craig. While her life is very good, every so often something like a broken iron will make her weep uncontrollably.