I was halfway through a blog post this week on ‘Boundaries before burnout’ — which will land next week now. My weekend was taken over by a dose of grief for my friend, Vicki, who passed away in 2025, and I ended up writing some thoughts on that instead.
A lot of what I want to write about in this blog is about being human, learning things that help us navigate life and self coach. This one is more about self compassion and knowing when there’s nothing ‘to do’ but face it. I wasn’t sure whether to write about it, let alone share it. But I’m learning to accept the cringe of putting your thoughts on ‘paper’, and you never know who might need to read it.
I’ve noticed a few things about grief that I never understood until I was in it. How it can knock on the door at the most random days and times. How the space between those moments does get longer — but when you’re in it, time may as well not have passed at all. How your brain does a kind of double take, checking whether it’s really happened, because part of you still doesn’t want to believe it’s true forever.
I could feel it building this week. Becoming more easily annoyed. Over-sensitive to noise. Craving quiet. These are usually signs for me that something needs to come out and I’ve got a lurking sadness to feel. Like most of us, between work and home, quiet moments are rare, and then its like a pressure cooker. Add in a dose of mum-guilt when patience wasn’t on your side and it can be, a lot.
I’ve taken lots of positive actions since I lost her. Inspired by how grateful she was for life, how much she wanted those left behind to live, and because I feel lucky to still be here. But some days, it’s not about any of that. It’s just about feeling the absence. Missing her. Wishing it were different.
I listened to songs. I listened to her voice notes. I cried and I slept. Then I woke up pretty tired and got on with a normal Sunday. I was walking around doing the food shop, thinking about how strange it feels that you can be in the thick of it one minute and then I’m standing there deciding what snacks we want and trying to work out what’s in the 3 for £5 offer.
That strange contrast of intense feeling one minute and normal life the next has followed me in lots of small ways and can feel like an oddly lonely experience.
I remember one day on a long drive, I thought I’d try speaking out loud to her. Turns out I wasn’t ready for that, got horribly upset and cars are not the place to test it out. I asked for a ‘sign’ to help me get through the rest of the journey. Five minutes later, ‘The Day That I Died’ by Lewis Capaldi came on, literally telling me “don’t cry” as I sniffled my way down the motorway. It does in fact, make you cry.
My favourite line from it is:
“I’ll love you just the same from somewhere different.”
And I like to think that’s true. I’ve had lovely moments where I still feel her presence in my life and I love reading about signs and how people try to keep their connection. Some will think I am bonkers, and that’s ok. I like to give her credit for the gentle nudges, when things work out, and to feel like I have her voice in my head steering me the right way. It makes me feel like I haven’t really lost her. But other days, i’m very aware that I have.
I had a lovely Irish counsellor, who always ended sessions with ‘go gently’ when we were working through the anticipatory grief and the aftermath. It feels like a very kind and compassionate reminder when you’re in the thick of it.
So my thoughts today:
- Grief is a rollercoaster. Feeling “fine” one day doesn’t mean you’re ok, and falling apart another doesn’t mean you’re going backwards.
- Your body often knows before your mind does something is off. Irritation, noise sensitivity, the need to withdraw — they’re often an invitations to feel something.
- Letting it out matters. Its not trying to ‘fix it’, just to feel it. Crying, writing, listening, speaking — sitting in it and knowing that it will pass, is all I have managed.
Go gently.
Image: The view from Vicki’s bench
Coachingwithjen 