In her powerful debut drama Lollipop, released in June, Daisy-May Hudson brings to life a quiet storm of systemic failure, maternal love, and the fragility of hope.
Through the story of Molly – a young mum trying to rebuild her life after prison while fighting to regain access to her children – Daisy-May invites audiences into a world that will resonate deeply with those connected to the care system.
We sat down with Daisy-May to talk about what inspired the film, the stories behind it, and why compassion can be a revolutionary act.
Your film is incredibly emotional, especially for those familiar with the care system. What first inspired you to make Lollipop?
I’d never actually thought about writing a film before – but I was approached by the producers, and they asked if I wanted to write something. I’d made Halfway, my documentary about my own experience of homelessness, and then I was doing loads of housing campaigning. People were getting in touch with me, telling me stories about these different areas where people were slipping through the cracks.
So I guess two things kind of came together. One was hearing about this impossible catch-22 – where young mums coming out of prison were being told they couldn’t have their children unless they had a home, and that they couldn’t get a home unless they had their children. The number of children who actually stay in the family when a mum goes to prison is really low.
And then the other was – I was outside the Houses of Parliament and saw these women campaigning for the right to have their children back. And yeah, I think I just connected really deeply to that feeling of powerlessness, and that determination to want to make change, but not knowing how or where to start.
I started researching and I met this amazing woman called Emilia Rose, who has lived experience of having her children removed – she now trains social workers. And we just started chatting, and then the story kind of began to take shape from there.
You’ve said Molly’s journey is fictional but based on many real lives. How did you go about researching it?
I really wanted to honour those experiences properly. So I spoke to family lawyers, judges, social workers, housing staff – and of course, lots of women with lived experience.
Molly’s a blend of lots of people. There are bits of me in her, for sure, but also many other women I spoke to.
And because you can’t really report on family courts – because of child protection rules – I don’t think we ever really get the opportunity as a society to look at it clearly and ask: does this work? Are all the dots joining up? Is this the best we can do?
So I wanted to make something that wasn’t coming from a place of judgement or bias or blame. I just wanted it to be true. So that we can actually look at it and go, is this working?
The film doesn’t shy away from intergenerational trauma. Was that an intentional focus?
Yeah, definitely. I guess my role as a filmmaker – or a storyteller – is to really hold a vision for the future, and for change and possibility. And that includes showing how things get passed down.
In Lollipop, we see three generations of women. They’re all trying to find their identity, trying not to follow in their mother’s footsteps – but also still repeating some of the same stuff. And that’s so normal. I think it’s actually really common.
Sylvie, Molly’s mum, says she was in care and wanted to do better. And then Molly ends up going through similar things. That cycle is just… yeah, it’s really heartbreaking. Especially when you learn that something like over 30% of women in prison have come from care.
But also, I wanted to show that Molly is a good mum. Like, yes, sometimes she gets it wrong, or misses a trick, or is a bit selfish – but she’s also loving and imaginative and committed. I really wanted to show the full spectrum of motherhood.
Because we’ve got a system that – for loads of reasons – is very child-centred, which is obviously important. But I think we can hold both things: we can protect children, and also recognise how profound and human that mother-child connection is. And I think we can do more to support women to be with their children, when it’s safe and right for that to happen.
That support seems almost entirely absent for Molly. What do you think needs to change?
I think for Molly, there’s missteps, multiple times. Like, whether or not you agree with prison, according to the system she’s done her time, right? So she should be free. But she’s not. She comes out and still doesn’t have access to her children, she can’t get housing, and she doesn’t even feel clear about how the system works. There’s no proper support around her.
And I think what really shocked me when I was making it was how few women were supported through what are the most traumatic things you can imagine – being separated from your children – and they’re told they can’t show emotion. Like, you have to appear really emotionally stable. You can’t cry, you can’t break down, because then it’s like, “Well, you’re not coping.” But obviously you’re not coping – your kids are being taken.
The women I spoke to weren’t saying they’d done nothing wrong. They weren’t saying, “We’re victims.” They were saying: we need a safe and supportive environment where we can take accountability. We could do things differently. But you need the space to be able to do that.
But Molly does find support support – in her friendship with Amina. That relationship feels so central?
Yeah, I think for me that was so important. Like, even when the system fails, community and sisterhood can be where healing starts. With Amina, Molly can finally take her guard down. She starts making choices about her life, not just reacting from trauma or survival mode.
And yeah, it’s not an official support worker or anything – it’s just a friend. But that shows how powerful community can be. It is transformational.
There’s a woman I met when I was making Holloway, my documentary – her name’s Mandy and she runs Treasures Foundation. It’s this incredible charity that creates supported housing for women to come off their addiction in order to get their kids back. And that space – where you’re not judged, where you’re supported, where you’re not reacting from trauma all the time – that’s what allows people to actually start making choices and changing things.
Prison, and a lot of the systems, are spaces of compounded trauma. And I think everybody deserves to be seen in the full context of their story – their childhood, their experiences, all of it. If we meet people with compassion, then yeah, I do believe women and families can thrive.
The foster carer character, Sheila, is beautifully portrayed. What would you like foster carers to take from the film?
I love Sheila, she’s an amazing heart. She’s doing her best for the kids – and she’s also rooting for Molly, because she knows that often – not always, but often – the best place for a child is with their parent.
Foster carers play such a compassionate role, especially at such a traumatic time in a child’s life. But I also think it’s about holding compassion for the parent, too. Like, speaking good into the mother, and speaking good into the child about their mother. That’s healing.
Because when you tell a child, “You’re bad,” or “Your mum’s bad,” that’s what they believe. But if you speak love into people, if you speak the good into them – they grow. They flourish. And I think we need to do that for everyone.
There’s a moment where a social worker tells Molly she needs therapy – but she can’t access it. What were you hoping professionals would take from that?
Yeah, I didn’t want to fall into stereotypes. I didn’t want any “baddies”. That’s why a lot of the actors in the film had lived experience of the themes in Lollipop – so they could bring that nuance and compassion.
I wanted the professionals in the story to feel like real people. Because honestly, you could be absolutely brilliant and caring, but still be constrained by the system.
The young social worker, for example – that came from something one of our lived-experience advisors told me. She said the pain of being told you can’t be a mum by someone who’s just come out of uni, who’s never been a parent themselves – that really stuck with me. That dynamic is hard.
And it’s interesting, because the actress who played her – Tamara – she brought so much compassion. But the character doesn’t know what she can do. She’s limited by the rules. And in black-and-white terms, it makes sense: if you don’t have housing, you can’t have your kids. But the problem is, none of the systems are joined up. So women fall through the cracks. Because of that same catch-22 – no home, no kids; no kids, no home.
The second social worker in the film is played by Shama Polydor– she’s actually a family lawyer. She helped with the script and made sure everything felt true to life. She talked about wanting to balance doing the very best by the child and the mother. It can’t be one or the other. But she also said: to make accountability, you need to feel safe. You need to not be in survival mode. And for that, you need housing. You need support.
One of the things that really shocked me was hearing how many women are told they have to do therapy in order to get their kids back – but the waiting lists are so long, they can’t. And then they’re in court, being judged for not having done it. Even though the system didn’t give them access in the first place.
There’s a line in the film where Molly says, “Push where?” That’s what it feels like. You’re told to try, to keep going – but every door’s locked. It’s not that people don’t care. It’s just that the structure doesn’t work. I don’t have the answers, and I don’t work in the sector, but I do believe there are brilliant minds working in this space – and that if we’re going to change things, it starts with visibility, with compassion, and with asking: how can we be trauma-informed? How can we bring more humanity and more connection to the work we do with women and families?
The film ends with the line: “To my mum, and all mums doing their best.” What does that mean to you?
I think so many people grow up and they don’t get what they needed. There’s grief in that. But also, there’s space for compassion.
I really believe that film can be a tool for healing. I’ve seen it. After screenings, I’ve had people come up to me and say they want to call their mum, or that they’ve had conversations they never dared to have before. That’s massive.
There’s so much pressure on mums – especially mums without support. If you’re not going it all on your own, if you’re struggling, then you’re see as a bad mum. But I think all mums are doing their best they can, emotionally, with what they’ve got at the time. And I think we need to bring more grace into how we see that.
Finally, if there’s one thing you hope people take from Lollipop, what would it be?
I don’t want to tell people what to take from it, really. But what I’m seeing is that people are connecting with it in all these different ways – through their own healing, through their work, or through their personal stories. Someone said to me recently, “It’s a movement.” And that’s exciting, because I don’t want it to be prescriptive. I just want people to feel.
Last year, we premiered the film at Edinburgh Film Festival, and a woman came up to me in the middle of care proceedings. She told me that after watching Lollipop, she kind of let go of worrying about the outcome. She had this bigger sense of hope – that even within all the grief and pain, there could still be moments of joy and connection.
So yeah, I think my job is to help people feel seen. And to help people who aren’t going through this really see what it’s like for the women who are. I believe empathy can change the world. We live in a society obsessed with right and wrong, good and bad – but the truth lives in the grey. You can be an incredible mum and still make mistakes. You can do your best and still fall short.
It’s about grace. And seeing people as whole. And believing that change is possible – if we meet them with compassion.
