My story of becoming Emma whilst navigating the ups and downs of life. Including (but, not limited to!) being a mum, living with depression and anxiety and becoming a young widow at the age of 39. A real rollercoaster of a ride!
Author: Emma Charlesworth
My world turned upside down in April 2020 when my husband of 14 years died of COVID-19. I was widowed at the age of 39 and am navigating life as a solo parent while trying to rediscover who I am. While this blog is about me, my journey and my learnings since starting on this new journey, it's also about my life so far. My very own rollercoaster. In November 2025, I published a book telling our story: Is Daddy Going to Be OK?
Three years ago today, 23 March 2020, the UK was put into its first lockdown.
It is a day that will be forever imprinted on my mind. Just 24 hours prior to that, Mr C had noticed a raised temperature and our journey with covid had begun.
I was honoured to be asked to author a blog for Widowed and Young to tell my story and what it’s been like for so many people over the last three years and you can read this blog at this link.
I was then humbled when the Metro online also featured this article, it is slightly different but focusing on the same timeframe. You can read this article at this link.
Today is a day for reflecting. For thinking about those we’ve lost and my thoughts are with everyone that has experience of what it was like to be bereaved during the pandemic and to be widowed young.
This week has felt hard for me. I’ve been teary most days. The realisation that you are entering a new phase of your life as you become a teenager and your dad is not here to see it has struck me this week. Of the three birthdays you’ve now had since he died, this is the one I’ve found the most challenging. But that’s grief and loss for you. Just odd.
But I don’t want that to detract from today. Because today is the day I get to celebrate the day you came into the world. The day you made me a mother. It is a day I hope I never forget. Meeting you for the first time, holding you for the first time and realising my life would never quite be the same again. We loved you before we even met you. Of course we did. Our very first scan when you started hitting with your fists because, quite frankly, you’d had enough of being prodded about! We should have known then what a feisty little character you’d turn out to be. The reality is though we loved you from the moment we first found out I was pregnant, you were a very longed for and wanted baby. Your dad had always, always wanted to be a father and finally he was going to get the chance to do just that.
As I sat wrapping your presents last night, I thought back to the night before you were born. It’s the weirdest thing in the world for me not having anyone to reminisce about that with now. There’s so much about that evening I remember, what we were watching, the timings of it all, the weather etc… I know it’s down to me to document that for your future. I feel untold pressure that I am the only one that can give you your history and answer your questions now, I want you to know everything. If the last few years have taught me anything it’s that we all need to know about our past, because when others have gone it’s all we have left. And none of us can promise to be here to share it at another point in time.
I vividly remember us bringing you home from the hospital and me looking at your dad and saying “what are we meant to do now?” Because nobody gave me a manual when I became a mother. Nobody told me what I was meant to do. Sure, I knew the basics. Feed you, clothe you, change you but there was so much more that I had no real concept of. It was a learning curve for both me and your dad. No matter how prepared we might have felt going into that pregnancy. I suspect it’s how most new parents feel, the phrase winging it which has become such a big part of our lives probably started right back then. That was the start of one of the most wonderful rollercoaster rides of my life, the rollercoaster of being your mother.
And my. What a rollercoaster it has been. That it will continue to be. Because that’s something I wasn’t really prepared for. The pride and love as you grow up and achieve new things, while at the same time wanting you to stay as you are forever. I loved having a newborn, I really did. Someone to just sit and cuddle, who didn’t argue with you… I still remember starting to doubt myself when you really started to develop your own personality around the age of two. I have never felt so unsure of anything in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I was “good enough” to be your mum. A phrase that has repeatedly been part of my life. I won’t lie because I did struggle at this time. I didn’t know how to be good enough for you. It’s something that I’ve always strived for, not to be the perfect mother because I don’t believe this is possible, but to be the good enough mother. If only I’d have known then, what I know now…
As when you were born, nobody gave me a manual when your dad died. Nobody could have ever told me how to parent a bereaved child. There is a part of me that would give absolutely anything to have changed what you’ve gone through. For you to never have experienced a fraction of what you have. I suspect I’ll feel this way forever. But the reality is that I can’t do this. Life doesn’t work like that. I mean, you reminded me of that one day when you were about four and I said you weren’t being very fair on me “mum, you always tell me life isn’t fair, so…” In that moment, I didn’t know whether to feel proud, laugh or tell you off for being cheeky! Like I say the scan should have taught me how feisty you would go on to become.
And that’s the simple truth isn’t it? Life isn’t fair. You know that more than most. But what you also know more than most is that surviving anything life throws at you is absolutely possible. Because you’re doing it. Right now, whether you think you are or not, you’re doing it. And I am so unbelievably proud of you. If you remember nothing else as you go through your life, I want you to remember that. I am so unbelievably proud of you. Your dad was so unbelievably proud of you. Remember that you are loved. I love you more than anything (even Jason. And that young lady is saying something!) Your dad loved you more than anything. If he’d have known what was going to happen to him and that you would grow up without him, it would have absolutely broken his heart. I’m so thankful he didn’t, I’d have hated to watch that and it would have changed the time the two of you had together. He fought so hard to beat COVID-19, he fought so hard to come home to you and I’m sure his final act of love for you was walking down the stairs to that waiting ambulance. I’m sure he didn’t want you to see him carried out of the house. He loved you, and even at that moment, you would have been his priority. There is no doubt in my mind about that.
I like to think of him now as your guardian angel. Your protector. I can fully imagine him rolling his eyes a little bit at you though. The sudden fascination with Marvel and in particular Spiderman… The dresses which don’t reach your ankles anymore… The heels… The make up… But I’m also sure that he’s also smiling at all of this. Because from afar he’s watching his baby grow up into an amazing, beautiful, thoughtful young lady. I know you think this is all nonsense, but I do like to think of him still watching over you.
He was always way more prepared for you growing up than I was. He always knew each of the phases of your life wouldn’t last for long. He’d probably be coping with this way better than I am. The video he did for you on your 10th birthday proved that. He always found a way of showing his love via creativity and music. Makes perfect sense really where you get it from. You’re so very much like him. It’s one of the many, many things I love about you.
Yet while I wish I could freeze time at times and keep you as you are, equally I am so excited at watching you grow up. At being privileged to physically see the person you are becoming. The person who binge watches programmes your dad and I used to watch together. The person who is my travel buddy. The person that takes control on the subway when I get slightly confused. The person who puts so much thought into gifts for me. The person with an entrepreneurial spirit. The person so determined to achieve her dreams. The person who 100% has not let her experiences in life define her but is instead using them to shape her. To teach her. The person who is becoming independent of me and needing me in a different way. It’s hard adjusting to that, I must admit, but it reassures me that we’ve done a good enough job in raising you. That you don’t need me in the same way you once did. And if I turn into the crazy cat lady you’re hoping for, I will do it with a smile on my face knowing that I can only do it because of who you are. The person your dad and I taught you to be.
So, here’s to you Miss Charlesworth. Here’s to the next little part of the rollercoaster of mother and daughter. Here’s to me getting more grey hairs now the teenage years are here! I genuinely can’t wait to see where life takes you now. I promise that for as long as I can, I will never let go of you, but I will let you go your own way, help you learn from your mistakes, never, ever judge you and be the biggest supporter you’ll ever have.
Happy birthday baby girl. I love you to the moon and back again. For always.
Wow. 2022 is done. Pretty sure that’ll go down in my history as that was the year that was. A year that took so much. A year that gave so much. A year that made me look at the world differently. A year that feels like it could have been about 10 years in one in all honesty.
Before writing this, I read back the blog I wrote this time last year. I ended it with the phrase “I am good enough.” Funny. Within six weeks I wasn’t feeling this anymore. My world capitulated. I was signed off work sick. I was forced to stop. I was forced to really and truly look after me. I don’t doubt when I wrote that blog that I meant it, but now I just think I was still trying to convince myself. I’m not convinced now that I properly believed it.
But that’s how grief works. That’s how stress works. You think you’re ok. You think you’ve made progress. But it’s only when you look back at where you were that you realise that while you were ok and had made progress, it wasn’t nearly as much as you thought you’d made. I remember looking at a photo of from New Year’s Eve last year and saying that the smile reached my eyes and I wanted to hold on to that feeling. But again, that smile faded relatively quickly.
I honestly thought going into this year that I was a lot further ahead than I was. I didn’t realise the effect that stress was having on me. I didn’t realise that my emotional resilience simply isn’t as strong as it once was. I doubt it ever will be again. I’d spent 2021 adjusting to reality and trying so very hard to keep going, to keep things as they’d always been, that I didn’t think about what was best for me as I started to look for coping mechanisms for adjusting to my new life.
As I look back over this year, I realise that I spent a lot of 2022 looking for distraction techniques. I absolutely know that I did it. I gave so much of myself to others as a way of stopping me thinking about me and what I was distracting myself from. And for what? Were these the people messaging me on Christmas Day to wish a Merry Christmas? No. People who are willing to take and not give back aren’t really the people that someone like me needs. Plus I’ve learnt something invaluable in the last few months. Distraction only really works in the short term. It’s only really preventing the inevitable. You can only really jump from one distraction to another for a short amount of time. It’s quite tiring for this to be sustained.
But it’s fair to say that new people have become a big part of my life this year. In an odd sort of way, it’s easier talking to and being with these people. The people who didn’t know me before (my life genuinely feels marked by the timeline of before Mr C died and after). Yes, I talk about him with them. But it’s on my terms. I like and enjoy being with people that didn’t know him, that only know me and accept me for who I am now. This is no doubt incredibly selfish of me, but when you’re trying to work out who you are and find your way, you sometimes have to be selfish.
A perfect example is someone who has become an integral part of my life this year. I received a message recently because of a conversation they’d had about me. “I don’t think we’d have met if she hadn’t lost her husband, and I’d give anything for that to be the situation” was the phrase that hit home. Because that’s it. My life is now on a different trajectory. With different people. With a different outlook. With a different mentality. I hate “what ifs” but they’re all par for the course. They’re what mess with my head the most. If Mr C hadn’t have died, what would my life be like? Who would be in it? What experiences would I have had?
Online dating is a prime example of something I wouldn’t have entertained if he was still here. And after my small foray into it this year, I do still sort of like the idea and haven’t totally given up that one day in the future someone may care for me or love me again (damn those cheesy Christmas films I’ve been watching! Although if anyone knows a widower like Jude Law, please send him my way!) But someone else in my life is still not something Miss C is willing to entertain. And that’s perfectly understandable and something we’ll have to work through if the Jude Law widower appears. Right now though, she much prefers the idea of me being on my own forever and becoming a Crazy Cat Lady with nine cats. Touching really.
But even creating an online profile is something that a year ago I wouldn’t have felt capable of doing. It wasn’t on the agenda. I know I said this at the end of 2021: “I know as I go into 2022, my rollercoaster will inevitably dip at times. But I also know it will rise up too. Because I have plans. I have ambitions. I’m dreaming big. I have the best people around me. The hope and reality I’ve adjusted to in 2021 has taught me that I can get through and do anything if I really want to” but attempting to date wasn’t one of those plans. Damn those curveballs. And I also know I didn’t achieve as many of those ambitions as I wanted to because of curveballs and distraction techniques. But add those to your world capitulating within six weeks and it’s actually very hard to.
But I have achieved some of those plans. And so very much more. I’ve seen Jason (once or twice!), I’ve had weekends away and nights out with the girls, I’ve done a lot more as “Emma” (including meeting Ronan Keating, not sure my sister will forgive me if I don’t mention that!), I’ve been to Wales and Scotland for two Widowed and Young (WAY) events, my blog was nominated for the Helen Bailey Award, I’ve appeared on TV as part of the Kelsey Parker: Life After Tom documentary, I’ve participated in a 25 Tuesday’s with WAY Instagram Live, I’ve spoken on the panel at the launch of the UK Commission on Bereavement’s “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report, I’ve hosted a fundraising event in memory of Mr C raising £3,500 for Medway Hospital’s Critical Care unit, I’ve launched a 2023 calendar featuring his photos and I’ve joined my daughter on an Instagram live with Winston’s Wish.
And on Miss C. This hasn’t been an easy year for her. The secondary losses she’s adjusting to have felt worse this year. But as a pair, we’re getting there. We’re finding a rhythm. We can argue like cat and dog at times. But we keep going. My proudest moment of the year was watching her dance at Disneyland Paris with her dance school. I’d have paid a fortune just to see that smile again, but I didn’t need to. Her being able to perform gave her that. We’ve managed overseas trips together. Florida, Paris and New York. I’m not going to lie, there’s been tricky moments during all of these trips. But somehow, we get through them. We’ve got through so much worse, we’re still living with pain and we always will be, but our little rhythm is picking up a bit of pace.
And these trips are just some of the firsts we’ve had to do in 2022. Anyone that tells you all the firsts are done within the first year is wrong. Partly because we lost in a pandemic. This year has also seen us return to the theatre for the annual panto trip for Miss C’s birthday, we’ve seen Mr C’s football team for the first time at a charity match which raised money for WAY in his memory, Miss C did her first dance show since 2019, her first dance show Christmas party (where I incidentally performed a Street dance having started lessons in September, although I’m not sure she was as proud of me as I was of her in Paris!!!!), and a return to friends for their annual Christmas gathering.
Life has slowly, slowly returned to “normal” this year. Except it isn’t our normal. Our normal was with Mr C. But he’s not here anymore. I don’t actually know what our normal is. I don’t know if I ever will. I’ll always be a widow. My daughter will always be growing up without her father. In fact, I’ve repeatedly told her this hasn’t been a normal year. It’s exceptionally unlikely we’ll ever have a year filled with as much as we have this year. I think we’ve got one more theatre trip to do and then we’re finally caught up on rescheduled dates.
I know that 2023 will be very different. The theatre trips and days out will be less, the overseas trips won’t be able to happen as frequently, I’ve got to adjust to being a one salary household against a cost of living crisis and the return to normal activities. There’s going to be some tough decisions coming my way because of this. I know that. I’ve got decisions to make regarding my future career, in the short term, medium term and long term. Sacrifices are going to have to be made. Nearly three years since my late husband died, I’m now in a position where the world is open, costs are higher and life on my own is harder.
But. I will make these decisions. They feel a little overwhelming but I’ll make them. Because it’s what I do. I’m so exceptionally proud of 2022 and all I’ve achieved. But the thing I’m proud of most of all is the fact that I’m still standing. 11 months ago I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown. It was one of the biggest wake up calls I’ve ever had to face. Something had to give. I had to stop. I had to look after me. It’s taken a hell of a lot of adjusting for me.
If I’m honest, it’s a little scary feeling more in control, because I wonder what I’m now actually capable of. What comes next for Emma? If I strip back the distraction techniques, the need to constantly be busy, the constant trying to find out who I am and the acceptance that I am not Wonder Woman, what can I achieve? I don’t know. It’s going to be exciting to find out so bring on 2023. Because if 2022 has taught me anything, it’s to remember the words to a song I say is my song and regularly tell myself:
“Don’t you know I’m still standing better than I ever did?
Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid
I want to start this by saying I’m no expert on grief. I’m no expert on bereavement. I’m no expert on childhood bereavement. But what I am an expert on is my child. My child who, at the age of 10, watched as her beloved father grew steadily weaker and more ill because of COVID-19. Who watched as her father walked out of our house to an ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. Who then never physically saw him again. Just think about that for a moment. It’s not fiction. It’s real. This is what happened to my beautiful, clever, amazing 10-year-old.
One of the very first things that was said to me in amongst all this carnage was “children are resilient.” It was said in a way to make me feel better, to make me feel that she would be ok despite our world crumbling around us. It wasn’t meant with any malice at all, because fundamentally children are resilient in a way that is different to adults. They are far more black and white, they are far more pragmatic, they see the world in a different way to us. But over the last two and a half years, this phrase has come back to haunt me time and time again. Because I can’t help but wonder if we are actually doing children a disservice by using this phrase and immediately telling them and their families how resilient they are. Yes, they might be, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t suffer, that they don’t feel pain, that their lives aren’t ridiculously changed forever, that they aren’t ridiculously changed forever. And quite simply, this is what has happened to my daughter.
She was a relatively carefree 10-year-old when the pandemic came into our lives. She was never meant to have been an only child, but after Mr C’s cancer we didn’t even know if we’d be able to have a child, and then after my miscarriage, we decided to just be thankful for the child we did have and that was that. I’ve wondered on more than one occasion how different her experience of bereavement and grief would have been had she had a sibling to share the pain and the loss with. It’s one of those “what if” questions that should never be asked and will never be answered.
And while I say carefree, she hadn’t always had it easy. She’d had to watch me hit rock bottom at the age of eight. She’d had to watch my nan’s health decline due to Alzheimer’s from the age of six (just six weeks before the diagnosis, she’d still been having sleepovers with my nan and baking cakes). She’d seen the usual marital arguments that happen. But, overall, she didn’t really have that much to worry about in her life. We tried to make as many memories with her as possible, we knew that she would only be a child for so long and that we needed to make the most of our time with her. I will be beyond grateful for the rest of my life that we took this approach and have a wealth of memories and photos to look back on.
But as the pandemic seemed to grow in its severity, the biggest worry and challenge I thought she was going to face was that of isolation, of not being at school, of not being able to go to dance lessons, of not seeing her friends and just being stuck with two adults in the house. But I didn’t worry too much, because children are resilient… Little did I know what she was actually going to face. I will never, ever forget the early hours of 30 March 2020 when she woke up to hear her father struggling for breath, me making a 999 call and seeing the utter panic and desperation I felt. Yes, I tried to say calm for her but in that moment I’m sure she saw it. She knew. And then, in a reality that will forever pain me, I had to leave her on her own when the paramedics arrived because they needed me. My 10-year-old had to sit on her own in our lounge, whilst knowing that upstairs people were trying to save her father and the only comfort she could get was via my mum on the phone because no-one could come in our house. But that’s ok right? Because children are resilient.
The next three weeks sort of passed in a blur. There were days we didn’t make it out of our PJs. There were days we’d have cake for breakfast and brownies for lunch. There was the day a week before he died when I had to sit her down and tell her that he was very poorly (understatement of the year) and might never come home. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I remember saying to her. “Yes, you’re saying daddy might die” was her response. Pragmatic. Real. She was bloody amazing. And then the Skype calls came. I didn’t do the first one with her because I wasn’t sure what he’d look like but having done that one, I knew she’d be ok seeing him. Each day I would ask if she wanted to talk to daddy and her response was always “well, I’ll talk to him today because he’s here today isn’t he and might not be tomorrow.” I told this story when I was on a panel at the UK Commission on Bereavement “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report launch and you could hear a pin drop. I saw members of the audience crying. It hit me then. Just how much I’ve come to accept what we went through because we were living it. How I’ve probably downplayed our experience because it was ours. And yet when other people hear it, they consider it heart-breaking.
But. The attitude and philosophy that my daughter adopted during that final week kept me going, because if she could do it, then so could I. And then the fateful day came. The call came. Hope had gone. He was going to die. She was actually about to become a child whose father had died. My biggest fear had been realised. Again, we did a Skype call and this was our chance to say goodbye. I can still remember her saying to him “I’ve not really got anything else to say to you now, I haven’t done much, I’ll go talk to nana and come back in a bit” (my mum was sat on our driveway at the time). Because let’s face it. Children are resilient. This was just something else she was dealing with.
And let’s be honest. She didn’t really have a choice but to deal with it. We were living in the middle of a global pandemic. Her father had died. I couldn’t make this any better for her. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real. Both of us had to deal with it. But unlike me, she didn’t cry. For weeks, if not months, she didn’t cry. She queried this with me because she didn’t understand why not. “Everyone grieves differently, please don’t worry about it” was my reply. It was all I had. The day of the funeral, she didn’t cry. She stood in the crematorium, did a reading with me, and didn’t cry. Shock. That’s what she was experiencing. Shock. I didn’t really realise it at the time, but like I say I’m an expert on my child and now I can say she was in shock. She was in shock for such a very long time. My amazingly brilliant, resilient child had experienced pain that no child should ever experience. She not only experienced loss, but went on to experience isolation, a lack of physical contact, her mother falling apart and secondary losses. Yet all the while people kept telling me that she’d be ok. Because children are resilient.
What I hadn’t really realised at the time and didn’t really realise until this year is how she aged overnight. Not just mentally, but physically. Her eyes took on a sudden weariness. She looked older. Yes, partly because she was growing up, but also partly because of the trauma she went through. And I realised this in the simplest of ways this year. We went to Florida for three weeks; it was our treat to ourselves after the heartache we’d gone through. We did a day trip out of the parks one day and she asked me for a cuddly toy as a memory, before then I couldn’t tell you the last time she asked for one. On the coach back to the hotel, she cuddled that toy. I snapped a photo and sent it to my sister. “She looks so young” was her response. And that was it. That was the moment I saw it. Our three weeks in Florida enabled my daughter to be a child again, to not have a care in the world and ultimately, to regress. She got back a little bit of her childhood on that holiday. I cried on the plane on the way home, partly because I felt I was leaving Mr C there but also because I felt I’d got my little girl back. She had been given the space and ability to be a child again. It was a momentous feeling. I wanted to keep her like this forever.
But back to reality we came. She said something to me a couple of weeks later after a difficult few days and it just winded me. “People don’t ask me how I am anymore, it’s been over two years, I’m supposed to be ok with it now aren’t I?” Because time is meant to be a healer, isn’t it? But sadly, the misconception that exists because we’re “trained” to believe that children are resilient is that they don’t suffer for any length of time. That they just bounce back from whatever comes their way. That they don’t experience pain in the same way. That grief doesn’t affect them. Without question it does. And it’s something that will be a part of them forever. I wonder how we can change that, because in my opinion it needs to be changed. Unless you’ve witnessed it first-hand, you have no real idea of what grief, trauma and pain can do to a child.
I won’t talk about all the ways I can see that she’s been affected and what it’s like for her because that’s her story to tell and I don’t want to divulge it. Maybe one day, but not now. Not while she’s living it. But what I can tell you as her mother is that she is 100% affected by her loss. That she is 100% struggling to work through and process what has happened to her. Losing her hero. Losing her protector. Losing one half of her history. And quite simply, why wouldn’t she be? It doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, it just means she’s human. It just means that she’s experienced one of the most awful things that she possibly could, and she needs to be allowed time and space to work through it. She needs love and care. She needs people to ask her how she is. She needs to talk about her dad. She needs to know that all of how she is feeling is ok.
And interestingly enough, from my perspective, it is this that I believe will build her resilience and help her as she goes through the teenage years and adulthood. Needing help doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, that she’s mad, that she can’t cope or that she’s weird. It just means she’s human and vulnerable. And I will be there with her on every step of this journey. I am so grateful for the child bereavement charities that I’ve spoken to who have given me guidance, who have supported her and will continue to support her.
But most of all, as her mother, I couldn’t be prouder of her for the way she has responded over the last couple of years. It’s not been easy; I’d be lying if I said it had. But I hope that she’ll retain the human and vulnerable elements to her as she gets older, because they’ll be two of the most valuable qualities she’ll ever possess. I hope that her experience doesn’t define her but instead helps shape her. To help her go into adulthood retaining that realistic and pragmatic view on the world. To truly understand that being resilient doesn’t mean that you don’t find things hard. That you don’t suffer. That it’s ok to need help now and then. And without question, I know that if she takes this into adulthood, it’s something that her dad would be very proud of her for doing too.
To be honest, that title could just be the blog. Done. There’s not much else to say really. But for someone who spent years saying to her daughter “have you ever seen me and Wonder Woman in the same room? How do you know I’m not her then?” to finally be admitting I’m not takes a heck of a lot. Especially given three months ago I asked to be portrayed as her in a caricature!
But now, at the age of 41, two and half years to the day after being widowed, I will finally admit it. I am not Wonder Woman.
I’ve always had a fairly crazy and hectic life. For years, we had this life together. Mr C and I would often be like passing ships in the night, I worked full time, he worked full time, he was a part-time photographer, he was in two bands, we had a child etc, etc… So many people would say to us “I don’t know how you do it” and I feel like I now know what I’d say to them.
Having been without him for what feels like forever, it’s funny (or ironic really) looking back. The amount of times that I would say to him that I’d just like it if he did more, that I’d appreciate more help and that I was sick of doing everything by myself. But the simple reality is that he did way more than I think I ever gave him credit for. And now, two and half years after his death and with the world pretty much back to a pre-pandemic state, I totally appreciate that. I feel so sad that I didn’t really see it and value it when he was here. That I never said “thank you” enough.
It’s taken such a long time for me to have to worry about and manage living again. I was shielded after he first fell ill and died because the world was shut down. We didn’t have to worry about a social life, we didn’t really have to worry about living. We were just essentially surviving. We 100% needed to do this, it was the only way for us to begin to process what had happened to us. To adjust to life just the two of us. We became insular because the world made us that way. And in many ways, I’m so incredibly grateful for that. We only really had to focus on each other, we had no choice but to learn to live without him in our lives, we couldn’t hide from it because it was so bloody obvious and apparent he wasn’t there. He was gone, never ever coming back and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.
But over the course of 2021, I realised that was never going to be sustainable. I realised we couldn’t avoid life forever. I spent a lot of last year saying that 2022 was going to be our year. The year we’d start living again. We’d spent a long time in shock. We’d spent a long time with life on hold. We’d spent a long time keeping him ever present in our lives. We’ll always do that, but I knew we’d need to find a way to keep him ever present while moving forwards. Not moving on, I don’t like that phrase, but moving forwards.
Yet what I’ve come to realise more than ever this year is that everyday life is hard work. Being a mother is hard work. Being a widow is hard work. Being a person trying to forge a future is hard work. Wanting a career is hard work. I’m exhausted most of the time trying to juggle everything. My entire life feels like a military mission. Spontaneity is not a word that ever really enters my vocabulary. At the start of September, I sat down and worked out all the days I wanted to go into the office between then and Christmas. Then I had to check that my doggy daycare lady could have my dog on those days. Then I had to check my mum was available to help with my daughter and pick the dog up on some of those days. My poor mum and stepdad now have a column on their organiser calendar just for us. Without them I’d really struggle. To go to the office. To have a social life. To live. I completely took this for granted before I was widowed. I’d just let Mr C know if I’d made plans and he’d be the one at home with our daughter instead. And vice versa. I just went to work. Simple really. I’d be up and out of the house before either Mr C or our daughter got up, he’d then get her ready in the morning and drop her at her childminder. This was our life; I didn’t have to think about it. But now, I have to ask for help simply to go to work. Crazy really. It’s the little things that you take for granted.
It’s one of the reasons that I feel quite passionately that I am not a single parent. I have friends who are single parents and they’re all blinking amazing. But I’m not. Yes, it might sound like semantics to someone not in my position, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m a solo parent. It’s bloody relentless. My daughter is, and always will be my priority, but it’s relentless. I can’t take it for granted that I can go out when invited, because if I don’t have a babysitter, it doesn’t happen. Every decision about her, every financial aspect of her life, all the running around, the organising, the arguments, the good times are all down to me. I can’t play good cop, bad cop with someone else when it comes to disciplining her anymore because I’m literally the only cop in the house! I miss co-parenting, I miss having someone to sanity check decisions about her with, I miss having someone that was my equal when it came to her. I reckon I always will. No matter how old she is.
But it’s not just parenting where I miss an equal. It’s in the day to day running of a house. Absolutely everything falls to me. I’ve said before about wanting to borrow my friend’s husband on a Tuesday because that’s my busiest night of the week and this really came to the fore earlier this year. I’d been to see Ronan Keating with my sister on a Tuesday, I got home at 12:45am and promptly realised I needed to put the bins out. Because my mum had picked my daughter up from school, they’d got the dog from daycare and then stayed at my mum’s, they’d had no need to go back to my house. And given no-one else is there, there simply was no-one to put the bins out except me. Reality of being a widow 101. You can go out, have a brilliant day and evening, and then come home to be brutally reminded that you are on your own and have to do everything. It sucks. No other way about it. Coming home and being able to just go to bed without having to sort anything out first rarely ever happens now.
I’m basically always on 99% of the time. Trying to do everything I’ve always done. Trying to work. Trying to be the organiser. Trying to have a social life. Trying to be there for everyone. Trying to give my daughter the same life she had before Mr C died. Over the last 10 days I’ve spoken at the UK Commission of Bereavement report launch, been to the office four times, helped at an event I’ve been involved with since 2004, seen Jason in Grease twice (crazy even by my standards!), been to the Warner Brothers Harry Potter Studio Tour and dealt with the usual juggling. I used to be a pro at a life like this, but looking at the photos, I can see how tired I look. These photos show me I’m not the same person as I used to be. Yet I know I’ve spent a heck of a lot of 2022 attempting to prove I am. Trying to prove I can do this. Prove I can do it all. We’ve done countless theatre trips (a number of which were rearranged from 2020 and 2021) and days out, we’ve been to Florida, we’ve been to Disneyland Paris, we’re going to New York. All of which are beyond bittersweet because we can only do them because of his death, but we’ve done them.
And more than this, since he fell ill and died, I’ve had so many people comment on how much I’ve done to keep his memory alive and honour him. The funeral, the memorial service, the charity event, the memorial bench, the podcasts, the newspaper and magazine articles, the blog, the charity calendar, becoming an Ambassador for Widowed and Young… I always retort with “but this is what anyone would do” but now I’m not so sure. Now, I suspect I’ve done it all because I’m simply terrified of him being forgotten, of what I will do with my life if I’m not desperately trying to keep his memory alive. And above all else. Now I wonder if I was doing it, as I did with the dating app, to prove that I could.
But, who the heck am I trying to prove anything to? Nobody puts any pressure or expectation on me. Expect one person. Me.
I’ve clung desperately to try to be the wonder woman I was before he died. Because to admit I’m not and I can’t do it all without him makes me feel like a failure. I’m a strong, independent woman who can do this by herself, why shouldn’t I have the life I’ve always had? Why shouldn’t I be able to give our daughter the life she’s always had? To adjust our lives, to accept I can’t do it all, to accept that running a house, managing the finances, working, raising a child, having a social life, buying all the presents, planning and everything else that goes with being a grown up means I have to accept that my emotional resilience has been irrevocably altered by his death. It means I have to accept I’m not who I was before. But that’s the reality. My life can’t be the same as it was before. Because I am 100% not who I was before. I can’t be two people and do everything two people did. The simple, hard-hitting truth is that our lives are different. I just wasn’t given a choice as to whether I wanted them to be.
Recently, very good friends of mine (the sort of friends you’ll allow to be brutally honest with you) have started asking me to slow down. They’ve told me that they’re exhausted just watching me. That they’re worried about me and what I’m trying to hide from by keeping continually busy. But I can honestly say that I don’t think I’m hiding from anything. I simply think I’m someone who is still struggling to find her way as a widow. To know where she fits in this world now. To get the balance right. To learn how to be an adult by herself. To feel confident in raising a child by herself.
Don’t tell them, but they’re right. I know and I feel that I need to slow down. I’ve proven that I can have a manic life like I had before. The reality is though that I don’t want it. I find it insanely hard work. I started this blog by saying I can respond to the phrase “I don’t know how you do it” and it’s simple. It’s taken the world opening up again to help me see it, it’s taken two and a half years since becoming a widow to see it, it’s taken the sheer exhaustion of life to help me see it. I could do it because I was part of a team, there were two of us, we shared responsibility for our daughter, we shared responsibility for everything. I could pretend to be Wonder Woman because I had my own superhero that meant I had a shot at achieving it.
So, while it pains me to admit it, this is my first step in pausing, breathing, slowing down and not trying to be a wonder woman and do it all. I realise now that not all superheroes wear capes. It doesn’t mean I’m a failure. It means I’m simply human. It means I have the greatest superpower of them all. Vulnerability. Couple that with the superhero and guardian angel who will always have my back, and who knows where that’s going to take me. Changes need to happen. Changes are coming. I am not Wonder Woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve, and can’t live a wonderful life that’s fulfilling but less hectic. It’s time to reprioritise. It’s time to refocus. It’s time to take control of me and my new life.
I owe it to our daughter. I owe it to Mr C. But most importantly. I owe it to me.
Oh how I’ve debated writing this one. I’ve debated publishing this one. I’ve debated whether this is a part of my story that I want to share. I’ve debated whether it’s a sensible one to write. But the trouble is. This has been whirling around in my head. And when that happens, I know I need to write. And I also doubt that I’m the only one that has gone through, or will go through this…
A while back, I decided to join a dating app. I didn’t really know why at that time. But it felt like something I needed to try. I didn’t even know what I really wanted to come out of it. I wasn’t entirely certain I wanted a relationship. I wasn’t really sure anyone would want me and all my baggage. Let’s face it, I come with a lot! And around the same time I randomly heard a Bruce Springsteen song (Secret Garden) that I hadn’t heard for years. There’s a couple of lines in it that resonated:
“She’ll let you into the parts of herself
That’ll bring you down.
She’ll let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vice.”
Yup. That was my worry. Admit to the dead husband and I’d bring anyone that was interested in me down. And the fear of being hurt and losing someone again makes me feel as though my heart is impenetrable without serious trying on their part. God help anyone that made the mistake of liking me! But most importantly, whatever was to come of this, I didn’t want anything that would throw me and my daughter off kilter. I knew that if anything was to come of this, it would need to be handled exceptionally carefully. But something inside of me said I needed to experiment and try a dating app.
I barely told anyone. I didn’t want any judgement. I didn’t want any pressure. I didn’t want people asking how it was going. I didn’t want any expectations. I didn’t want my mum rushing out and buying a hat! This was, quite simply, something I needed to do for me. For the first time in a very long time, I was 100% selfish. I did something that was completely and utterly for me. It was, in essence, my secret and a gift to myself.
I’m not going to lie. It felt absolutely alien to me. Choose your best photos. Sell yourself in a paragraph. Give people a brief overview of yourself by answering some questions. I had never had to do this before. I’d known Mr C for nearly three years before we started dating. I didn’t have to sell myself to him in a paragraph, a natural connection formed over time. And ultimately, that’s why I was sceptical about being on an app. I just didn’t think you could feel an attraction or form a connection with someone without actually knowing them. How on earth could that happen?
But more than that. I didn’t really like the person that I was turning into from being on it. I felt I was becoming such a shallow, ruthless person. I’d reject people based on looks, their height, whether they were vaccinated, if they said that COVID-19 was a hoax, if they were called Charlie or Stuart, if they said they wanted no drama, poor grammar (yes, honestly!), fetish requirements (opened my eyes a little though!) and acronyms that I didn’t understand (you know you’ve been out of the dating scene for a long time when you’re having to Google what people are putting in their profile because you haven’t got a clue what they’re saying).
However. I did send some messages to people that passed the ruthless test. The majority of them didn’t respond however. Which, of course, does wonders for your self esteem. A couple did. Some were literally laughable with how forward they were. Definite eye rolls from me at some of the messages. There were a few nice chats but that was it. “Ok,” I thought, “I’m capable of doing this, I’m capable of having a message conversation with someone I’ve never met. Get me.” But the first time someone asked if he could ring me, I made up an excuse. Shut that down straight away. Because, as I’ve said, I didn’t really think this was what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted to come of this.
And then. A guy responded to one of my messages. He seemed “normal.” We started messaging. Just a few a day to start with, but then they gradually started to increase. Hmmmm. This wasn’t meant to happen. He was completely and utterly on my wavelength. We seemed to have a huge amount in common. We discussed anything and everything. He made me smile, he made me laugh and I found myself looking forward to the little notification that I had a message. Seriously. What was happening? This wasn’t on the plan (probably because I didn’t laminate it). I wasn’t meant to like someone. This didn’t happen on dating apps. He ended up invariably being the last person I messaged before I went to sleep and the first person I messaged when I woke up. Hmmmm.
The very few people who knew about this encouraged me to ask him to meet for coffee. Nope. I batted them away whenever they suggested it. To do that would make this real. To do that would mean I’d have to deal with it in real life. Hiding behind messages was just fine for me. I could be who I wanted to be. I could be Emma. I wasn’t a widow, a mother, a colleague or a friend. I was, quite simply, Emma. It was refreshing. I didn’t want to have to address any elephants in the room about why I was on the app. I just wanted to be me. Not meeting him allowed me to do that.
The messaging went on for just over a month. We didn’t exchange numbers. He didn’t put pressure on me to meet. He was sweet. He seemed genuine. What on earth was the catch? He seemed too good to be too true. And then. One Sunday evening, when I went to send a message, I made a discovery. He’d deleted his profile and vanished. Just like that. It was over. Whatever “it” was.
My stomach dropped. I felt the tears start to come. I felt sick. I’d let my guard down. I’d trusted someone enough to have all these messages covering a wide range of topics. And then, in the blink of an eye, I’d felt like I’d been played for a fool. Of course no-one would seriously be interested in me. How on earth could I have been so stupid?
But. The one emotion that I didn’t feel was anger. I didn’t want to yell about the injustice of it all. I didn’t want to shout at anyone. After the initial feeling of stupidity, I just sort of accepted it. That confused me. And oddly enough, I felt relief. Not hurt. But relief. Again. What was happening? Why wasn’t I feeling what I “should” be feeling? What on earth was going on in my head and my heart now?
I sat and gave it some serious thought. And that’s when it hit me. This was actually the perfect outcome for my first foray into dating again. Because at this point, it just helped crystallise that I probably wasn’t ready for a relationship and all the quagmire that comes with it. The relief was that it wasn’t going anywhere. I wouldn’t have to deal with the where is this going question. All that had happened, was that I’d reached a point in my life where I wanted and needed some flirting, banter, chat and to be made to feel good about myself. I got that from doing this. But why? Why had I needed that?
Again. Serious thought time. When I’d first subscribed to the app and said to my sister I didn’t know why I was doing it, she told me the answer to that was simple. “To prove you can.” And that’s really what this whole experience came down to. I needed to prove something to myself. Rightly or wrongly. For over 20 years, I’d had someone on hand to pay me compliments (admittedly they’d sometimes be backhanded ones, but still), I’d had someone to message on my way home from work, I’d had someone to make me smile, I’d had someone who could make me feel good about myself on those down days. And that person went just as I was approaching my 40s…
Now. I’m not saying I stressed about turning 40. I’m not saying I need validation from a man. Far, far from it. I instil this in my daughter on a very regular basis. “You are enough. You simply need validation from yourself.” But. Let’s be honest. Who doesn’t like to receive compliments? Who doesn’t like being flattered? Who doesn’t enjoy having someone to talk to who you’ve got a connection with? Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of intimacy? Yet, all of a sudden I found myself alone in my 40s, knowing that I had more grey hair, knowing that I had more wrinkles, knowing that I was carrying more weight than I used to and being way too self critical of myself. I was trying to navigate the world alone at a time in my life I should never have been.
Yes, Mr C and I had had those random conversations about if something happened to either of us and us wanting the other to be happy, meet someone else etc… But, when I said “til death do us part” at the age of 24, I didn’t really expect to be facing this dilemma. I expected us to grow old together. I expected to have someone there to pick me up on my down days. To make me feel good about myself when I needed it. I didn’t anticipate what would happen. I didn’t anticipate being a single person and basically being surrounded by couples and happy families. It’s bloody hard work. Seeing people in the throes of new love. Seeing people loved up. Seeing people compliment their partners. Seeing lives move forward as people celebrate their anniversaries and share all the things they love about their other halves. No matter how happy you are for others, that jealous pang hits. You find yourself withdrawing. Because it’s easier to do that than feel alone.
And that’s ultimately why I did this. That’s why I joined the app. My sister was 100% right. Annoyingly. It was, quite simply, to prove that I could. That if I really wanted to, I could sell myself. I could find someone to connect with. I could find someone who would appreciate me. Who would make me feel wanted and desired. Who would make me feel flattered and complimented. But this was also something I was doing as me. As Emma. People weren’t liking me and responding to messages because I was a widow, a mother, a colleague or a crazy Jason fan because I didn’t share any of that in my profile. They were liking Emma. I said when I launched this blog that I was trying to figure out where I was going next. Answering who Emma is the $64 million question. This experience has helped me on that quest and to answer that question.
After that Sunday discovery, I did keep looking at the app. I did send some more messages. But my heart was never really in it. It hadn’t been from the off if I’m perfectly honest. It really wasn’t for me. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing with my life. I let the paid subscription run out. I didn’t renew it. However, I can’t say I’ll never subscribe again. I can’t say I won’t consider dating. After all, as my daughter forges her own life and becomes more independent of me, I’m going to need someone to talk to. As wonderful as my dog is, he’s not the best at conversation or compliments! And as I know all too well, you never know what life is going to throw at you. Someone could come into my life at any point. I could get swept off my feet tomorrow. And maybe at some point I’d actually be ready to brave that coffee. Or brave being taken out for dinner. I mean, let’s face it, I’m never going to turn down a free meal! And as Rachel, a fellow widow wrote in a brilliant Twitter thread about her requirements, once a month would be enough, (I could literally have written this thread myself).
But for now, I’m content. I’ve done what I needed to do in this new world I’m navigating. I’ve got what I needed. I like the new found confidence and glint in my eye. Yes. Most of that has come from me and all the work and effort I’ve put into me through counselling and looking after myself, but some of it, without a shadow of a doubt, has come from my app man.
And how do I feel about him and the whole episode now? He shockingly hasn’t put me off men for life. I’ll never regret those messages or any of the time I spent in conversation with him. The thought of it still makes me smile. I suspect it always will. I’ll forever be thankful to him. He reminded me how to accept and say thank you for a compliment about me. Not about how brave or strong I am, not about how I’ve coped with what’s happened to me, not about how I’m raising my daughter. But about me. We come back to why I did this, I just needed to be selfish for a bit. But more than that. I’ve said before about believing people come into your lives for a reason. I wholeheartedly believe that this is the case with him.
And the reason? To give me back something I didn’t realise I’d lost. To give me a bit of a confidence boost. To help me realise what I needed and was looking for. To help me appreciate myself again. To help me look at myself through different eyes. Not the eyes of a grieving widow. Not the eyes of a devoted mother. Not the eyes of someone trying to hold down a full time job while also juggling her life.
But through the eyes of someone who can appreciate all she has to offer. Who can appreciate that she deserves more than she gives herself credit for. Who can appreciate all she’s been through and realise she’s right to be proud of herself. Who can realise that the wrinkles and the extra weight are part of her story. They’re something to be proud of. Because they reflect her life. They reflect the fact that she’s still standing and still keeping going despite everything that life has thrown at her. It hit me one day when I took a selfie to send to him. Because I looked at it and didn’t criticise it. I’ve started taking more selfies. I’m less critical of myself now. I can see and like the sparkle in my eyes again. I can look at pictures of me, like them and appreciate myself for the person I am. The person I’m evolving into. The person who is, without question, enough. And ultimately, that’s an incredible gift for him to have given me.
It was on this day three years ago, that a text message from a six-year-old changed my life. That might sound fairly dramatic, but that message really did have a massive impact on me and how I look at life. There isn’t a chance that she’d even remember it, but I do.
For those of you that follow my personal accounts on social media, you’ll know that every day I post something which includes this: #BeThankful. I try to find one thing a day that I’m thankful for, no matter what my day might have been like. It’s something that I started doing in 2019 and has now become a part of my everyday life.
In my previous blog on my mental health, I wrote about how 2018 was the lowest I’d ever been mentally. I was at rock bottom. It took me a lot of time and effort to claw my way back to feeling like I could survive and cope with life again. But the start of 2019 suddenly saw stress building again. Within the space of 24 hours my sister and I went from the euphoria of seeing Boyzone and me catching Ronan Keating’s hat to being in disarray at care for my nan. As my rollercoaster life started to dip and the stress started, I could feel myself slipping back into old ways. What I was most comfortable doing. It was so easy to focus on all the negative in my life.
But I knew that I couldn’t go back to how I’d felt in 2018. I knew that I had to do something that would stop me just focusing on the negative and try to change my mindset. I wasn’t entirely sure what I could do but then in amongst the stress, I mentioned to Mr C about something good that had happened that day. It was like an epiphany. In that moment, I decided that no matter how hard my day had been I would find one thing a day to “Be Thankful” for and share it on Twitter. I tagged in some of my work colleagues to let them know what I was doing with an image that said “Be thankful for what you have. Be fearless for what you want.” I sort of figured that if I’d publicly said I was going to do it, that I’d be accountable for doing it. It was almost like a pressure that I put on myself to do this. But a good pressure. Yet when I made that first post, I had no idea whether I’d even be able to stick to it. I had no idea whether it would actually make the blindest bit of difference.
But over the next few months, it did make a difference. I started to realise that even on those days when there were a number of stresses that I could find something. Some days it was small such as cooking a meal for Mr C and not giving him food poisoning (oh how that one has come back to haunt me now!) the washing basket being empty, a nice walk or a good day at work with brilliant colleagues. Other days it might be something fairly big such as seeing a show and being thankful for it. It was starting to change my mindset. It was starting to change the way I looked at the world.
And then I reached 18 June 2019. I vividly remember this day. It was a particularly tough day at work. I’d been going through a particularly tough few weeks and it all culminated on this day. I left the office in tears. I wasn’t in a great place. I got home and said to Mr C that I wasn’t going to do my Be Thankful’s anymore. That there was just no point. That they were a complete waste of time. I was fed up of trying to find the positive even on days when there really, really wasn’t anything. I suspect I also yelled or cried at my sister over the phone. Because a little while later I got a text message from my six-year-old niece. I’ve added it to the image at the top of this blog. When I received it, I cried. Because on that ridiculously tough day, she reminded me that I was loved. She made me smile with her innocence. And she taught me an incredibly valuable lesson that day. That even when you might not realise it initially or feel it, there really is always, always something to be thankful for. She became the inspiration I needed. She spurred me on.
I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the start of the next phase of the 2019 rollercoaster ride. I’d suspected that I was at a crossroads in my career at that point and that day in particular, cemented it for me. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going to go or what to do next. I thought back to some advice that has always stuck with me shared by a previous line manager “it’s your life, it’s your career, the only person who can change it is you.” After a lot of soul searching and external coaching, I made the move to a new role. I joined a fabulous team. I felt I’d finally found where I was meant to be. It put me back on the upward trajectory of my rollercoaster. This was the start of September 2019, just six months before my rollercoaster would completely dip again in a somewhat spectacular fashion that none of us would have seen coming.
It actually scares me now to reflect on this. Because a few weeks after I started my new role, Mr C and I were having a conversation in the car. I remember it like it was yesterday. I have no doubt that I always will. My tweet for the day was this ““Life feels settled” I said to Mr C today. “It’s like I’m in the calm before the storm.” Who knows if or when that storm will come but on day 230 I’m going to #BeThankful for the calm and all that brings.” I shared it with an image that said, “Be thankful for all you have, because you never know what might happen next!” Wow. It’s sort of hard to remember and contemplate a time in my life when I didn’t feel like I was living in a storm. Two weeks after I posted that tweet, we learnt there was a chance he could be made redundant. Three months later, he was. Six months later his first symptom of COVID-19 showed. Seven months later he was dead. Seems I was fairly prophetic with my calm before the storm statement. I blinking wish I hadn’t been.
But even after we had the news that he might be made redundant, I continued doing my daily Be Thankful’s. I ended up doing them for an entire year. They sort of became ingrained in me. Other people started to tell me they looked forward to seeing them and reminding themselves to look for something in their day. I remember someone telling me that she had tried to do a daily “Be Happy” but all it had really served to do was show her that she wasn’t happy. It’s interesting isn’t it? Because when we try to force ourselves to feel something, it becomes incredibly difficult to do. When we allow ourselves to feel something no matter what else might have happened and to help us breathe a little bit, it becomes far more natural. I don’t in any way claim to be a psychologist, but these conversations do make me stop and think about people, how we respond to situations and what helps our mindset.
And of course, I do remember overthinking it and asking people what I should do when my year was up. I hadn’t really had an idea of how long I’d do them for when I started, but a year felt like a good time to finish. And of course. The marketer in me did a nice little word cloud when that year was up. I queried if I should do a daily “Be Brave” (my sister started giving me ideas such as jumping out of a plane). But again. Had I gone down that route, it probably would have been prophetic. Who knew what I was about to face in my life. But I didn’t. Shortly before Mr C fell ill and I was getting fed up with all the doom and gloom on my timeline, I started doing the Be Thankful’s again. I invited other people to join me. One of the Twitter family started doing it, I believe she’s on day 823 now. I love seeing her daily tweets and knowing that someone else does this as well.
After I started them again in March 2020, I carried on doing them for a little while after he fell ill and then I stopped. It was just something else I didn’t need to be doing or thinking about. I had enough on my plate. And to be honest, I was completely struggling coming up with things in those ridiculously early days. It was bleak. It was hard work. No two ways about it. But it recently popped up on my Facebook memories that I did start doing them again in June 2020. I’d had the weirdest day where grief was getting me in every which way. Of course it was. My husband hadn’t been dead for two months, I don’t know why I expected anything else. I was up. I was down. I was up. I was down again. And then I managed to build a computer chair. I felt I was going to carry them on this time.
Except I know I didn’t. At some point I stopped doing them. I can’t tell you when and I can’t really tell you why, because I don’t actually know. Until 1 December 2021. I remember it because it was a day that felt like someone had flicked a switch. I spent a lot of the day in tears. Mr C absolutely loved Christmas and just seeing December on the calendar and knowing we were about to do our second Christmas without him tipped me over the edge. It felt that it was going to be harder than the one the previous year. I could feel the potential for me to spiral. So, I decided that I was going to return to an old faithful just for a month and see where it took me… I’m now on day 201 of this round of Be Thankful.
I’m so incredibly glad I started doing it again. Yes, there are days when it feels like a stretch to find something. But I always do. People always tell me that I’m so positive. I disagree. I don’t think I’m positive. I don’t pretend the tough times don’t happen. I don’t try to turn them into a positive. But what I am is a realist. And I try to find just the tiniest shred of hope and something to appreciate even on those tough days. About a month ago, that same niece of mine said “I’m proud of you” when I was talking about being nominated for an award for my blog. Again. Something so small at the end of a really long day, but the impact it had was immeasurable. Finding one thing that is good in a day is just something I have to do to help my mindset and help me survive the madness.
Because as the prints around my house remind me. There is always, always something to be thankful for. I don’t know why I ever forgot that really. The kindest and sweetest six-year-old taught me that three years ago. And I will forever be thankful to her that she did.
A year ago, I wrote a blog called “When I grow up, I’m going to marry Jason Donovan.” I’ve now given a copy of that blog to Jason. “I promise you I’m going to read this darling; I promise you” was his reply. I’ll be honest. Even if he didn’t, it’s not the end of the world. Because he called me darling. Life made in that moment!
And for those of you who have followed my story, you’re not going to be surprised when I say this viewpoint about wanting to marry him hasn’t changed over the past year. I can’t lie. Every time I meet him, there’s still a nervousness and a tiny part of me that always wonders whether this will be the occasion where I change my opinion. Whether this will be the occasion where he crushes my love. But no. It hasn’t happened this year. If I’m completely honest, I doubt it ever will. But what has happened since my last blog is a vital step forward on the widowhood rollercoaster, a marriage proposal and the biggest surprise of my life…
Let’s start with the vital step forward on the widowhood rollercoaster. I’ll start by giving some context. When I look back at my Facebook profile photos from across the years, Jason features in more of them than Mr C! I’m lucky that my late husband was fine with this. After all, he knew his place! But since he fell ill, all my profile pictures had featured him. Aside from one, when I wanted to show solidarity with my friend who had just lost her partner. I felt that was ok to have and people would understand. Because at the back of my mind was the worry that I’d be judged of having a profile photo that didn’t feature Mr C or didn’t have a valid reason behind it. Now, a lot of this comes from my own insecurities and fear of judgement since becoming a young widow. I know that. But I worried. Would I be accused of moving on? Would I be accused of forgetting him? But this is my life now. Overthinking absolutely everything. And there’s also a small part that couldn’t change the photo because of guilt. That I’m still able to live my life, take new photos and make new memories when he no longer can. Grief really is the most conflicting thing to live with.
A prime example of my overthinking about this came in August last year. We went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the London Palladium, and waited at the stage door. Something I’ve done many, many times. This time though, I was pushed forward to talk to him by a fellow Jason fan who mentioned what had happened to Mr C. Thus followed a lovely chat between me and Jason about everything I’d gone through. I turned round to see my sister and my friend in tears! They were so moved by how lovely he was and how intently he’d been listening to me. But that’s Jason for you. A genuinely lovely guy. While we were having that conversation, my sister got the most wonderful picture. I walked round the corner to Pret A Manger to grab some lunch, (it’s literally a two minute walk) and when in there I debated whether I should change my profile photo. Whether it was the “right thing” to do. By comparison, when my daughter and I had met Jason at the same place in 2019, my profile photo had been updated before I’d even made it to Pret. But this time, I just couldn’t bear to do it. For that fear of judgement from others. So, after debating over lunch, I didn’t do it. I didn’t change my profile photo. Despite me absolutely loving the photo and what it represented.
Fast forward to October 2021. I was fortunate enough to get some Meet and Greet tickets at the last minute to Jason’s Even More Good Reasons Tour. I don’t think two days’ notice was adequate preparation time really, but I did it. I overthought my outfit (to be fair I’d have probably done this pre-widowhood) and my sister and I made our way to the Hammersmith Apollo. It was only when we got there that we learnt that we’d only be allowed in one at a time. “What on earth am I meant to say to him?” was her response to that. She messaged my brother-in-law. He responded with “go in first and tell him to run.” And while she did go in first, she didn’t tell Jason to run. In fact, she came out with tears in her eyes “he’s just so lovely, I can’t right now” was her description of the conversation they’d had. But I couldn’t ask her why, because it was my turn to go in.
He told me what a lovely conversation he’d had with her. (Shockingly, she didn’t tell him to run. He confirmed that!). And it won’t surprise anyone to know that I left that experience completely agreeing with my sister. He really is just so lovely. I received a brilliant picture from that moment. It came through while the concert was happening and as soon as I looked it, it made my evening. It was a proper smile on my face. The smile reached my eyes. You can see the adoration in my face. You can tell how happy that moment was making me. Just like the conversation I’d had in August.
And I knew the instant that I saw it, that I’d love this to be my profile photo, but that thought I’d had before was nagging at me. What would people think of me if I no longer had Mr C on my profile? Yet on the train home, I did decide to go ahead and change it. Believe me, it took everything I had to click “save.” When I did this, I cried. It might sound small, it might sound stupid, but to me, it felt huge. It felt like I’d just taken a massive step forward. It felt like I was finally giving myself permission to keep living. It felt that I was finally allowing myself to be more than just a widow. To show people who I really am (title of this blog works on so many levels!) One of my friends even commented “well done” when she saw it. She knew just how much it had taken for me to do it. And it’s probably no coincidence at all that it was a picture of me and Jason that made me do it. My one constant since childhood.
I woke up the following morning still on cloud nine. This was what I shared on social media…
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who wanted to grow up and marry Jason Donovan. That little girl went on to go through quite a bit in her life. Jason always proved to be a constant for her. Yesterday, that little girl got one step closer to realising her childhood dream…
I am aware I bleat on about him (a little bit). I am aware that it possibly looks like I have a problem (a small one). But yesterday just reminded me why I am the way I am. He’s honestly one of the most genuine people there is. He reminds me of a time when life was simple, and I didn’t have a care in the world. And for the second time this year, he had my little sister in tears because of the care and compassion he showed regarding Mr C. Spoiler alert. Even she is starting to have a soft spot for him now. Only a little one mind you.
So, when she grows up, that little girl still wants to marry him. His proposal is in writing now. That must be legally binding ❤️
That’s right. I got a marriage proposal. From Jason Donovan. And it’s in writing. 23 years I’d been waiting for this moment. And it was definitely worth the wait! My sister had teed it up for me when she spoke to him, she explained everything I’d gone through over the past couple of years and thanked him for all he’d done for me. What she was unprepared for was how much compassion Jason would show to her about this. The questions he would ask about Mr C and what had happened. That’s what brought the tears to her eyes. The kindness and the compassion.
So, when he and I spoke, he said “I understand there’s a question you’ve wanted to be asked for years, shall we do this then?” I was lost for words. He did tell me not to tell the wife, but I told him how lovely she is too. I was sure she’d understand just what this meant to me! I clutched that signed programme for the entire concert. It is my most treasured possession now. It’s framed. I sent pictures of it to everyone as soon as walked out of the Meet and Greet. But it was the response from my daughter that got me the most. “God save me” was her response. It made me take a sharp intake of breath. Because it was no doubt what Mr C would have said. Or something incredibly similar. That pang of missing him hit. Even when I was the most excited I’d ever been, the happiest I’d been in months, the pang of him not being here was there. I’ve come to accept that’s how my life will always be. The happiness and the pain being intertwined.
And then we come on to the biggest surprise of my life, which is obviously linked to Jason. In October last year, I did something most unlike the old me. I trekked halfway across the country to meet up with someone I’d never met after she so very kindly offered me tickets to see Jason in Leeds. It sounds crazy. I’d never let my daughter do it. Travel halfway across the country to meet someone you’ve only ever spoken to on social media and take her at face value that she’ll give you tickets to a gig. But this is the new me. The new me that realises that life is too blinking short not to do crazy things every now and then. The new me who has been so absolutely blown away by the kindness shown to me. I just knew it would be ok.
I was right. As soon as I walked into the pub to meet her, I knew she was my type of person. She is without question my kindred spirit. So much so, I invited her to my belated 40th birthday party. Despite only ever meeting her that once in Leeds. Sadly, she was unable to attend. Or so I thought. It turns out that she had colluded with my sister to be there. She travelled 5.5 hours to be there. With her somewhat wonderful husband who had never met me (bloody love that man). They walked into my party wearing Kylie and Jason masks so I wouldn’t recognise them. When they came over to me and lifted them up, I think I actually shrieked. I hugged them both so much. I couldn’t get over it. I couldn’t believe people would do that for me. Travel all that way and surprise me. A mutual love of Jason has brought the most wonderful, full of life person into my world. I’m so lucky.
And since my marriage proposal last year we’ve repeatedly joked on Twitter that she will be my chief official bridesmaid. So, her gift to me at my birthday was a photoshopped image of me, her and my sister onto the Neighbours wedding photo. She even got Jason to sign it for me when she did a Meet and Greet. We come back to that word I used a lot in my blog about him last year. Kindness. It means the absolute world and invariably costs nothing. Though I’m not going to lie. I do wonder what he must have thought when he saw that picture! And I also feel he probably needs some warning ahead of us going to the theatre or a gig together. I’m thinking someone should brief The Dominion Theatre ahead of our visit at the end of the month!!!
But while I jest. My adoration and love of Jason really has given me so much this year. It’s helped me take a step forward I didn’t actually realise I really needed to take. It’s brought someone truly wonderful into my life. It’s helped me make some new and very special memories. That I will treasure for my entire lifetime. I wonder what I’ll be writing this time next year. I may have peaked with the proposal last year, but there’s a few more theatre trips booked over the coming months. So, you just never know what could come next. A girl can dream. I mean, after all. Any Dream Will Do…
Last Tuesday, I took my daughter to see Hamilton in the West End. It was her birthday present from me, it was going to be the first theatre trip we’d done just the two of us since Mr C died. But for a variety of reasons, it ended up being the third one! And as I sat there watching it, I was struck with the overwhelming realisation of how much life has changed since 2020. The same date two years ago, I was told to prepare for my husband to never come home. I spent a week praying and hoping that the hospital was wrong. My life at that point seemed unimaginable if he was to die. The day he died my entire life and my future seemed unimaginable. But as the cast sang “It’s Quiet Uptown” and I watched them sing the lyrics “learn to live with the unimaginable,” my tears started. My daughter’s tears started. It felt too close to the mark. Because that is absolutely what we’re doing. Learning to live with the unimaginable.
When I wrote a year ago about the day my late husband died and the immediate aftermath, I actually think I was still in shock. I don’t think I appreciated it at the time, but looking back now, I think I was still in shock. I was still learning to live with and process what had happened to my family. The immediate aftermath of our entire world imploding. The country was still living under restrictions. I still hadn’t hugged so many of my friends and family. My daughter and I were, to a certain extent, still living in a protective bubble, trying to just survive. We hadn’t really had to return to our old life and adjust to life without him. This second year, we’ve had to do it. This second year has therefore been much harder.
I’ll openly admit I’ve struggled more. I look at photos of him on our wall. I watch videos of him singing. I still struggle to comprehend how someone who was so full of life just isn’t physically here anymore. And never will be. I’ve had moments where I’ve forgotten myself. Where I’ve gone to ring him. Where I’ve expected him to walk through our front door. These are the real reality check moments. That this is forever. And that he will never, ever be here again. It’s utter madness. I don’t think it will ever make any sense to me. I’ve watched my daughter transition to secondary school without him by my side. I’ve done my first parent’s evening without him. The whole time I was doing it, I was hopeful that all her teachers knew what had happened to him. I didn’t want them judging him that he wasn’t there for parent’s evening. Because without question, he would never have missed it if he had been alive. All the time, thoughts of him are ever present. I know how much it would have broken his heart if he’d have known that our daughter was going to grow up without him. I know how remarkably proud he’d be of her for how well she’s survived these last two years.
I’ve been back to the crematorium where his funeral was held for the first time. I went for his Nan’s funeral. It was without question one of the hardest things I’ve had to do over the last couple of years. To stand there and watch the same funeral director talk to the family. To watch our daughter break down during the eulogy where the loss of him was mentioned. To be around everyone who should have been at his funeral. But I did it for him. It’s still such a huge part of my life. Making sure that I do things for him. I knew he’d have wanted me to go. To represent him. To pay respects. To show support to his family. It was the right thing to do. He always believed in doing the right thing no matter how hard it might be.
I’ve spent so much of this last year making renovations to our house. I hope he approves and likes what I’ve done to it. I have no doubt that he’d be rolling his eyes at my choice of flooring for the kitchen and the conservatory, and my decision to put Jason pictures up, but let’s face it. I have to rebel a little bit! I hope more than anything I’m making him proud. I hope I’m honouring his legacy in a way he’d approve of. But the last few months have also showed me that I’m getting to a point where I need to look after me a bit more though. Where I need to stop keeping busy and just learn to sit. If he was here now, he’d tell you that I’ve never really been any good at just sitting, but I think now he’d want me to put some energy into me. Not “Charlie’s widow,” but Emma. I know I need to do that really, but in all honesty, I’m scared to. Because I don’t know if I’m really ready to stop doing things for him. It’ll make it just that bit more real that he’s really gone if I do. But in a bizarre way, stopping would also be honouring his legacy, it’s something he’d want for me. To slow down a bit.
And I’ve tried to think if there’s been a day that’s gone by where I haven’t thought about him or spoken his name. I don’t think there has been. Because I still need to. I still want to. It’s all part of me learning to live with the unimaginable. The only way I can even begin to process what has happened is to still talk about him. To still think about him. I can’t just wipe his existence from my life. I don’t want to. Yet, the periods between the gut-wrenching sobbing are longer. I don’t sob every day anymore. In fact, I don’t even cry every day anymore. But I still cry incredibly more frequently than I used to. The first time I went to see Jason Donovan and realised that Mr C would never again roll his eyes at me or wind me up about the obsession. When my sister and I went to see Ronan Keating and he sang “If Tomorrow Never Comes.” In the theatre. When a random song comes on a playlist (music is absolutely my kryptonite). When I watch my daughter do the washing up and inspect the dirty items as he used to. When friends send me pictures or videos of him that I might not have seen before. When a text message comes at a time I need it the most. I could go on. Because all these things and many, many more make me cry. I strongly suspect they always will. I’m a heck of a lot more vulnerable than I was before this happened to me.
But as time goes on, I still refuse to see myself as a victim. I still refuse to see my daughter as a victim. I don’t want to let the pain win. I don’t want to stop living. Believe me, it would be very easy to curl up in a ball and do this. It would be the easier option, because learning to live with the unimaginable is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There are no two ways about it. Even the small things hurt. I can no longer have a family organiser calendar up in my house, because the missing column is just too painful. So, when I did my calendar for 2022, I filled it with photos from 2021 to remind us that we had had good times during that year. To remind us that we survived. But in selecting these photos, there was also an element of guilt. There was an element of sadness. That we had had good times. That we had smiled. That we had laughed. That we were still able to live our lives despite what had happened to us. That he is missing out on so, so much. I can’t help but wonder if the tinge of guilt and sadness that accompanies the good times will ever fully dissipate.
Yet I think I know what he would say to me if he could. I think I know what he would have said if he’d been able to speak and say goodbye when he was in hospital. I think it would have been something along the lines of “It’s my time Em, but it’s not yours. You need to keep living. Enjoy your life. Make the most of every day. Live for the moment. Stop overthinking. Make memories with our little girl. Bring her up in the way we always wanted to. Don’t let this destroy her. Don’t let this destroy you.”
That little voice that is always at the back of mind is what has kept me going this past year. That little voice has spurred me on every single day. Yes, without question this second year has been more challenging for me. Because I’ve had to face a reality that I really didn’t want to. Because I’ve had to begin to learn how to live my life without him. Because I’ve had to acknowledge the trauma that I went through. Because I’ve had to spend so much time working on me. The cast of Hamilton sang these lines last Tuesday:
“There are moments that the words don’t reach
There’s a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable”
These lines are why I found that song so hard to watch. Because I’ve not been able to push away the pain. I haven’t been able to push away what I can’t really understand. I haven’t been able to push away the unimaginable. I have had to confront it head-on. My life became unimaginable two years ago. It’s why it’s been so incredibly hard for me. Because I wasn’t given a choice as to whether I learnt to live with the unimaginable. I haven’t always got it “right.” I know that. But show me anyone in my position that has. Quite simply, we all do what we have to do to survive. Because until you feel in a position to choose life and start living again, that’s what you do. Survive. One minute, one hour or one day at a time.
And that’s why as I reflect on the second anniversary of his death, I know that the next year will bring new challenges. It’s the way my life will be forever now. I am the mother of a child who lost her father aged 10. I am a young widow. I will always be both of these things. That means that whatever my future holds, I will face challenges and uncertainties that most people my age wouldn’t even have to think about. But I also know that I’ll survive them. I’ll embrace them. It’s all part of learning to live with the unimaginable. And it’s exactly what my late husband would have done if the roles had been reversed. If he had been the one left behind. It’s why we made such a good team. Because we both understood the value in living.
So, today I’ll no doubt shed some tears. And tonight I’ll raise a glass to Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. Two years gone. But never, ever forgotten. Because I will always tell his story. That I promise.
My world as I’ve come to know it came to an abrupt stop on 10 February 2022. After a complete reality check and some brutal home truths from my counsellor during my appointment, I went to see my doctor. And was promptly signed off work…
I messaged one of my friends to tell him what had happened. His response? “Surprised it took this long…” But for me it felt bizarre. The thought of not working for more than just a few days or being a full-time mum during the day just felt alien to me. Because it’s what I’ve been doing for two years to help give me back some control. To help me try to navigate this horrendous situation I’ve found myself in.
Let me give some context. I am, quite simply, a control freak. I’m the person who goes to Florida with a laminated itinerary. I can’t tell you how happy my laminator makes me! I’m the person who goes to Florida with a folder with different sections resulting in the car hire man saying, “bet she’s fun to go on holiday with.” (And yes, Mr C did laugh just a bit too much about this comment). I’m the person who organises. I’m the person who plans months in advance. I’m the person in control.
But on 16 March 2020, that stopped. No, that isn’t when my late husband fell ill or died, but when the advice came to work from home. Because in the blink of an eye, the control and the life that I’d known for so long vanished. Over the next few days, further announcements came. Schools were to shut. The UK was being placed in lockdown. My world was shifting and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And let’s not forget, by the time the UK was put in lockdown, my late husband was displaying signs of COVID-19 and gradually getting more and more sick. My ability to stay in control was being taken from me. There was absolutely nothing I could control about this situation. I hadn’t realised that this was going to be the way my life would feel for at least the next two years.
When he was in hospital, I wasn’t in control. I had to wait for them to ring me with updates. My life turned into just sitting by the phone waiting for news about the man I was meant to grow old with. And then he died. I pitifully began trying to claw back some control. I decided not to tell friends for hours so that they’d be able to find out when their children had gone to bed. I woke at 6:30am the next day and went downstairs to make a list of the people I needed to tell such as banks, insurances and pensions. I was trying to do anything I could to be in control. Because I simply didn’t know what else to do. I needed some sort of order in my life. I really wanted this back.
But the pandemic had other ideas for me. I don’t think any of us anticipated quite how long we’d be living under restrictions. I’d arranged house renovations, but they got halted by COVID-19. I lived with boxes in my bedroom for just over nine months because I couldn’t keep moving them to different rooms. It frustrated the hell out of me. I felt like I wasn’t in control of anything. Every time I tried to make plans to decorate, to make my house nicer or to take my daughter to the theatre, delays happened. We couldn’t see friends or family which we really needed. I couldn’t plan anything. My brain couldn’t take it. I was angry. I wanted a chance to help us adjust to our new life. I wanted to be able to have a shot at moving forward. But every single time, it got halted. And just as we got into a rhythm of me going back to the office one day a week and started talking about me doing more days post-Christmas, Omicron hit. The advice was given to work from home again. At the same time, things were changing at work, people were leaving my team (I obviously have no control over this), and it felt like everything was changing again. The stability that I’d managed to create for just a little while dissipated.
But I kept going. Until that day in February. When I finally had to acknowledge that I couldn’t keep going any longer. I couldn’t keep calm and carry on. I actually had to stop. I had to focus on me for a change. Nobody else. Just me. I’d been trying for two years to give us “normality” but when this feels like pushing water up a hill, it’s incredibly hard to do. The same friend who I’d messaged about being signed off gave me some advice, “use this time for a little mini reset, not to think “how can I use this time productively.”” He was 100% right. But actually, what he didn’t realise was how much I did need to use some of this time productively. Because to do that would help put me back in control of my life.
I have had a mini reset. I’ve stopped. I’ve not just kept going. In all honesty, I’ve probably done what I should have done when Mr C died. But it simply wasn’t possible for me to do then. The world didn’t allow it. I will always stand by my decision to start working again three weeks after his funeral, because it helped me feel a little more in control and if I hadn’t, I strongly suspect I’d have gone stir crazy. But I’ve sat and watched TV or just thought more times since February than in the last two years. I’ve spent time doing lengthy dog walks. I’ve spent time sitting at my late husband’s memorial bench. I’ve managed to do some exercise classes. I’ve spent time having coffee or lunch with friends, in my view, the best form of therapy. I’ve done some writing. I’ve shed many tears. I’ve breathed. I’ve put me first. I’ve stopped trying to do everything and be everything to everyone all the time.
Yet, I have also found it incredibly cathartic and beneficial to be productive too. I’ve put up shelves. I’ve built radiator covers. I’ve emptied Mr C’s wardrobe and sorted his clothes. I’ve sorted through cupboards and got rid of things we don’t need. I’ve been exceptionally ruthless because I have to live for today. There is no point keeping something I might need in the future because I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve got rid of glasses we were bought for our wedding nearly 17 years ago that we’d never used. Not all of them and not our wedding china, because I’m not ready for that, but anything we don’t “need” has gone. I’ve bought new furniture because we’d wanted to do this since we moved into our house nearly six years ago. I’ve been able to do things on my to-do list. I’ve smashed old furniture that we no longer need. I have done numerous trips to charity shops. I have done numerous tip runs. All of which have helped me feel more in control. For the first time in a long time, I was beginning to feel in charge of my own life again.
Until the week leading up to my belated 40th party. I spent most of that week throwing myself a pity party. You see, I’d decided the Sunday night before that I was going for self-preservation that week. I was absolutely going to do nothing and focus on me. 12 hours later, the universe had other ideas for me. A carpenter I’d had booked since April last year cancelled on me. I discovered that there had been a leak and my kitchen flooring which had only been down for six months needed to be ripped up. The floor had to dry out. Over the course of that week people pulled out of coming to my party. They were double booked, they’d tested positive for COVID-19, they weren’t well and while testing negative didn’t want to risk it, rising case numbers were worrying them… I absolutely respect all of this. I completely appreciate people’s decisions. But from a completely selfish perspective it wasn’t doing anything to help me. Once again, I started to feel out of control. Not helped by the issues in my kitchen, but mainly because I was feeling that COVID-19 was taking control away from me again and was going to ruin my third birthday in a row. I couldn’t get excited about it. I just didn’t care.
It took me until about half hour before the party started to get over this. At this point I realised that I wasn’t in control and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I would just enjoy myself and have fun with those people who were able to be there. And that’s what I did. I just stopped stressing and caring. I went with the flow. A slightly novel experience for me. But one that without question paid off. Because it was absolutely perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be (I’d been planning it since 2018 so you’d like to think this would be the case). I danced. I smiled. I had one of the biggest surprises of my life (probably deserves a blog in its own right). I just let go. I woke up the next morning feeling that my heart was full. Feeling content. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. I knew it was something that I needed to hang onto.
And I’m trying really hard to do that. I know it’s not always going to be easy. I know that for me to survive, I do need my life to be a combination of being in control and learning to just let go and go with the flow. Because I’ve come to realise that as much as I’d like to be, I simply can’t be in control all the time. Life doesn’t really work like that. Yet, for the first time since March 2020, I honestly feel like I can begin to plan again. I can start to think about my future. I can book things for us to do which (all things crossed) won’t be cancelled or rescheduled. I recently went on a night out to celebrate my birthday. The same friend who had sent me that message in February was there and the next day he sent me this message. “You looked happy. You looked like “Emma.” Carefree. Was really nice to see.”
It’s nice to get messages like that. They make me smile. Because my mind is feeling clearer. I’ve got some annual leave next week and then I’m going back to work. I’m looking forward to it. I’m feeling a world away from the start of this year. But I know that life will always throw challenges my way. I just need to make sure my mind is as strong as it can be to cope with them. And I also look around and know that there’s still things in the house that need sorting. There are still shelves that need to go up. Pictures that need to go up. There are still things that need to be got rid of. And I know that each time I do this, it will help me. I will gradually take back the right amount of control that I need. One tip run at a time…
Life is a rollercoaster 