When grief finds you.
Grief. It is a part of me now. Seared into my very essence.
The love for those lost. The heart aching so badly, I feel it can never mend.
And yet, it does.
As I wander along this path of rawness and tears, I find strength I never knew I had, and learn to breathe through it all, despite it all. Collecting glimmers of light and joy along the way, picking up pieces of my broken heart. Realising that there’s treasure to be found, even in the darkest places, and I can heal after all.
If grief is your companion too, know that you’re not alone. All your feelings are not only welcome, but necessary.
May these words fill you and shine a light for your journey.
The gift of choice.
Loss. Grief.
They rip my heart apart, strip me bare.
The pain, sorrow, and despair.
The anger and guilt.
But they also bring back memories — the laughter and joy, connection and home.
And love. Above all, love.
All is needed.
On this journey of healing — honouring those I’ve lost, honouring myself.
Words kept leaving me as I watched my sister’s journey with cancer.
Stunned. Shocked.
At how fast it was claiming her life. How brutally.
She had battled cancer for years and even reached a place where it seemed she might win. Then, in less than five months, death swooped down on her and she was gone.
Her journey was awful — for her, for us. I can’t imagine how it was like for her, but watching her body shut down tore pieces off my heart. It still does.
But even dying is living.
The path she travelled — and we travelled alongside her.
The tears we shed together, the anger, the regrets, the goodbye.
Somewhere in all of this, there is healing.
In making peace. In embracing my own life — making it richer because of my sister and what I’ve witnessed.
If I so choose.
There is a fire inside me that flares up so suddenly it startles me — before turning into a blaze.
Anger. Rage. Roaring through the night.
Directed at the universe for daring to claim the life of someone I love.
Directed at my sister for leaving me — for the way she left me, left us.
A part of me tells me I shouldn’t be angry, shouldn’t vent or blame, but accept it with grace. Because that’s life. Death comes for all of us.
But it only hits us — really hits us — when someone close is only hours, days, or months away from death. Or has already gone, expected or unexpected.
There is grief and sadness — a lifetime of it. And there is anger and rage.
How do I stop this blaze inside me?
I don’t.
Not because I can’t, but because I’ve chosen to give it a voice.
To acknowledge the loss and what it means to me.
To honour anger as it shows me how broken my heart is, how much I’m hurting, and how much I need to look after myself — to give myself grace in this very challenging time.
And so, I do.
Little by little, I soothe the fire inside me. I soothe myself.
I’m alive, while she is not.
I’m healthy, while she was not.
I have a chance at life — a good life, while she does not.
My sister is gone.
I should make the most of my life simply because she couldn’t.
And yet, I feel guilty. For being alive, for enjoying what life has to offer. I don’t feel it every day, and most of it is not conscious.
But in those quiet moments—when memories rise, or an anniversary passes her birthday, her death—guilt knocks at my door. Loudly.
I try not to listen.
Guilt is persistent. Oh, so very persistent. It knows its way around my every defence.
What can I do?
I can acknowledge it. Give guilt the place it deserves.
Because guilt is but another layer of my deep love and loyalty for her. For a sister who shared my life, my path for a while.
Was that path always beautiful and amazing? Of course not. We’re human. Family— bound by blood and childhood.
But regardless of our differences, we had a bond. Filled with love, laughter, and kindness.
And for that, I am deeply grateful.
I wish.
I wish I had spent more time with my sister.
Talked and laughed with her more.
Visited her more.
I wish I had made more effort, been there for her more during her journey, helped and held her more.
But I didn’t.
I can’t go back and change any of it — no matter how hard I wish I could.
No matter how much these regrets and guilt weigh me down — they keep hounding me.
How do I escape?
I can’t. And I’m not supposed to.
They’re part of this healing journey.
Part of realising I did enough — gave what I could, held space as best I could.
Sometimes, it’s not meant to be more.
It’s time to make peace with myself, forgive, and let go.
To cherish the time I had with her and honour her memory.
I can do that.
Goodbyes.
They’re never easy.
They’re even harder when someone is dying.
But they are needed. Oh, so very needed.
Whether in person, on the phone, as a message or a thought—each goodbye is an opportunity to express love and gratitude for a life shared. To allow closure, if only a little bit.
I wasn’t there to say goodbye to my sister in person (she was in Austria, I in New Zealand), but I was there on the phone, through my thoughts and heart, and the energies of Reiki, guiding her home.
My elderly father supported her on the phone too—as best as he could. Then, one week my brother said goodbye, the next my other sisters.
I knew then that the cycle was almost complete, that I was the missing piece. But I couldn’t get through to her—the phone ringing in vain. Anger and desperation drowned me. Grief pulled me under.
I hadn’t cried with her, hadn’t said my last goodbye.
In the end, it was she who called me, out of the blue. While a storm was brewing outside, ready to break loose, I became still.
My heart keeps breaking every time I revisit that call—the pain, the sorrow, the clinging on to life, when there was nothing left but a thread. When I put down the phone that evening, I knew the circle was complete.
And it was.
Less than four days later my sister slipped away quietly—before the night had finished her embrace.
I only said goodbye to my sister on the phone. But it was more than enough.
It was a gift—a very precious one.
Grief comes in waves — choppy ones that pull me under, towering walls that hit me head-on, and gentle ripples that lap at my feet.
No matter how many days or months pass, these waves wash over me.
Sometimes I can sit quietly with my grief, cherishing the memories it shares.
Other times, the onslaught feels endless. In those moments, I struggle — with myself, with life, tired of not having pulled myself together enough.
Until I realise—I don’t have to.
I’m allowed to feel all that I feel.
I’m allowed to give myself compassion and grace.
I’m allowed to hold space for myself.
And when I do, acknowledging the rough journey I’ve been on, remembering I’m only human, I find peace.
Life feels a little lighter, a little easier — worth moving on and living through it all.
When my heart aches, I want to scream, then hide —hide from the pain and fix whatever is broken.
But I can’t.
And maybe I’m not meant to.
Maybe all I need is to allow myself to feel and be.
Knowing I can hold this space for myself.
And that by witnessing what is, I already bring ease to my aching heart.
If your heart is aching and needs some ease, I invite you to listen to my Reiki infused meditation “Ease for the aching heart”.
Letter to Mum.
Reading the letter I wrote to my mum for her funeral, hearing myself say the words that came from deep within — it brings me comfort and peace, allows ease into my heart.
With it, I honour my mum, my ancestral line, the love and life we had, still have.
But recording this letter, letting my voice carry the words, it does so much more.
It allows others to find comfort and peace, giving voice to feelings that sometimes are easier to acknowledge when we hear them from someone else.
It serves as a reminder of the love, the bond shared, and with it, an opening to honour their mum, their ancestral line.
Because without her, without them, their gift of life and love, we wouldn’t be here.
If you’d like to read the letter I write to my mum, click here.
Watching someone you love slowly fade away strangles the heart.
The knowing that they won’t get better, that the end is coming—it is so hard.
For them. For us watching.
All you can hope for is that they find peace and go quickly, easily. But at the same time, you want them to stay, because losing them is even harder.
When my mum fell ill, we hoped, we prayed—for her recovery at first, then for her suffering to end.
It did end. After a very long journey.
Relief outweighed grief. For a while. Then grief showed its vastness.
I’m still relieved she could go, and yet, I miss her terribly.
In the quiet moments. In retelling memories. In conversations with my family.
Grief and relief—they dance with each other, each living in my heart now. It gets easier as the days pass. And sometimes it’s not easy at all.
I breathe. I remember.
And I’m grateful—for the sun on my face, for the love shared and remembered. Always.
I sit on the couch, my two teenage boys snuggled up against me. It is early morning, daily life about to claim us.
And yet, they take this moment to connect.
To connect with me, their softness striking a chord deep down inside me.
And I reflect — on the bond between them and me as their mum. The bond between me and my own mum.
The softness. The ease. An arm around me. A gentle stroke through my hair. The “Morning” welcoming me gently.
I see my mum in the way my boys respond to me, and in the way I respond to them.
I smile as I feel the ache in my heart.
It isn’t sharp or a pull, but a lighter, lingering tug, reminding me of the hole she’s left behind and the vast space she fills.
She is my mum and I am her daughter.
No matter where I am, no matter where she is, within myself, within my children, I will always find her there.
Long after she’s gone.
I miss my mum.
Can I pinpoint what I miss the most? I’m not sure. Some memories are hazier than others — regardless of how much I wished I could hold onto more, onto her.
But there is one thing I miss most acutely — her ability to hold space with just two words.
When I would feel weary, overwhelmed or sad, when life was getting too much for me, I would call her, share my worries, and she would simply say, “Poor sweetie.”
Two words.
Two words said in such a gentle, comforting way — it made all the difference.
No fixing, no judging. Only allowing, giving my feelings space.
A big sigh would escape me and my shoulders would drop. They still do when I remember her through this.
With these two words, I was heard, soothed, and that was all that mattered, all that was needed.
Two words, and I was held in a way that only she could.
I try to recreate it — with my husband. It works, to some degree. Then again, it’s not meant to, because it’s a different bond. A mother’s bond with her child. Strong, weathering time and space.
The umbilical cord may be cut at birth; the bond between us never is.
Sometimes I feel everything, my heart groaning from the sheer weight of all the pain, the sadness, the grief.
Sometimes I feel nothing.
Then I sit there, stare into space, unable to express myself, to find the words.
That’s how I felt after my mum’s death — numb, disconnected, trying to acknowledge the grief I was holding, but failing.
It was when I picked up a pen, imagining I was sending her a letter, that the words came back, bringing ease for my aching heart. Yes, there were tears — there still are — but they lost their scariness, the words allowing me to create space and, with that, hold myself.
I felt her there — with each word filling the page. The love, the light. The stroke on my face, the arm on my shoulder.
Writing. It helps me to make sense of the world around me, but more so inside me. It doesn’t need to be poetic or grand. It only needs to come from my heart. That alone makes it beautiful and incredibly powerful.
So, I write. To keep the door open. To her. To others. To myself.