Category: Childhood Bereavement

Goodbye 2025

A selection of images that depict events in Emma Charlesworth’s life such as the front cover of Is Daddy Gojng to Be OK? and Dubai holidays.

The last two years, I’ve ended my year end blog with one phrase “Never tell me the odds.” Once again so much has happened this year that I could never have predicted. Well. Aside from this sentence which I also wrote on this day last year “I already know that there are two words which will feature heavily in 2025: Jason. Excessive.” That prediction did indeed come true.

But hey, we all need a little stability in our life, don’t we? And we all know that Jason Donovan provides that stability for me! But when you’re starting a year with a heavy heart, you need things in your diary which will make you smile. And my 2025 did indeed start with a heavy heart. I’m still not properly convinced that I’ve processed how my 2024 ended and the fresh grief that came my way. I will do one day. But for now, it’s in a box. And that works for me.

Fortunately, I’d been back in therapy for a while when 2024 ended and that continued into 2025. It was the most exhausting therapy I think I’ve ever had. And it wasn’t my first rodeo when it came to therapy. I don’t claim to be a therapist, counsellor or expert but I can safely say that for me EMDR proved to be life changing this year. I still can’t properly explain it or how it works. But for me it was. And I still think I’m reaping the benefits from it. I’m not naïve enough to think I’ll never need therapy again, but for now it’s proven to be just what I needed. Despite my near capitulation that led me to it.

And just a few months later, near capitulation led me to tell my daughter she was also going back into therapy. It was a laugh a minute in my house. Hormones at play for us both while we were also both having therapy. The poor dog (who’s male) probably didn’t know quite what had hit him. But therapy and needing help has become an almost standard part of our lives since 2020. I guess if you want to live, you better figure out your life.

I don’t say that flippantly. Because when you’ve been widowed and experienced childhood bereavement, you’re in survival mode for so long. You don’t really live. It’s too difficult and painful to do so. You don’t know what your life is all about anymore. But hitting the five-year anniversary of the pandemic and my late husband’s death felt like a heck of a milestone. My daughter didn’t want to be at home for it, so we ran away on holiday to Dubai. Without a plan or laminated itinerary. Other than to be at the top of the Burj Khalifa for sunset on the actual anniversary. As we sat at the top of the world watching the sunset, a strange sort of calm came over me. It felt like the most apposite place in the world to be. I don’t really know what people must have thought of me sat there with tears streaming down my face, but that doesn’t matter. Because it doesn’t really matter what anyone else thinks. Do you. And be you.

I guess in a way that’s also what I was doing between February and the start of April. Being me. We’re back to those two words again. Jason. Excessive. I wrote a blog post about this on Jason’s birthday, so I won’t really repeat myself. Except to reiterate one thing. The memories I created during those six weeks will last me a lifetime. Even if I do now struggle to look at a chicken tender! And earnt the nickname road runner. But hey. You only live once, right?

As Ted Lasso would say: “It may not work out how you think it will or how you hope it does. But believe me, it will all work out.” I think that’s been my biggest learning across 2025. When I wrote a Facebook post six years ago today, I simply had no idea where my life was about to go. Or how it would work out. These words will always be so poignant: “As we head into 2020, there’s a lot of a variables for Family Charlesworth and who knows where we’ll be this time next year. But whatever happens, we’ll get through it. For in the words of a song I’ve heard once or twice this year… Life is a rollercoaster. Just gotta ride it.”

The variables I referenced were mainly to do with work. I was on a secondment. My late husband had been made redundant. Never did I think that a variable would be being widowed at the age of 39. My husband dying at the age of 45. My child losing her father at the age of 10. Family Charlesworth becoming Team Charlesworth. And there are no two ways about it. All the five-year anniversaries in 2025 have made me more reflective this year. But even I wasn’t anticipating quite how the year would go. The good things that went hand in hand with the challenges, heartbreak and therapy. Take for example, taking on a new role at work and leaving the comfort blanket of the familiar for the first time since my late husband fell ill. A new challenge and something for me and my future. And just a few months later taking on another new challenge by becoming a Trustee for WAY Widowed and Young. Such an honour and a way of giving back to a charity that is a lifeline for so many and so vital for me in those early days of widowhood.

Yet I couldn’t really write a year end blog this year without also referencing CharlieFest: Dress to Impress which took place to mark our 20th wedding anniversary. We raised £1,600 for Medway Maritime Hospital Intensive Care Unit and even had the fabulous Phil Gallagher (aka Mister Maker) and Ben Roddy in attendance.

And without question. I couldn’t write this without referencing Is Daddy Going to Be OK? The book that made me a published author. The book that led to me writing a Voices piece for The Independent. I still haven’t really processed all of this either. The book was just sat on my laptop for such a long time. I doubted whether I’d ever have the courage to publish it. Because simply finishing it was an achievement. There is so much more I want to say about the whole process of writing and publishing this book, but that’s probably a blog or two to be honest. Better to abbreviate than waffle on. After all, I did write over 90,000 words for the book!

But this is probably me just trying to deflect with a bit of self-depreciating humour. Because I still find being a published author just a tad overwhelming. I struggled with imposter syndrome for a few days after the release. What if it was rubbish? What if I’d made a terrible mistake in releasing it? What if…? What if…? What if…? You’d think I’d have learnt that this in the worst question in the world to torment yourself with. But it was exactly what I did.

In the six and a half weeks since release, life has been fairly hectic. I haven’t really had much time to pause and reflect on it all. The Christmas dance shows for my daughter. Open Days and auditions for her for colleges from September 2026. Christmas and all the trappings and busy-ness that comes with that. This Christmas saw us host for the first time since 2019. The first time I’d used our wedding china and all our Christmas crockery since 2019. The first time I’d ever cooked a Christmas dinner by myself at the age of 44. Again, I’d never have believed you if you’d have told me I’d be doing this at the end of 2019. But what’s the saying? Man plans and God laughs.

Last year, I said the word discombobulated was the best way to sum up my 2024. This year? I’d say it’s been pretty serendipitous. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for this year. A lot of opportunities have afforded themselves to me at the right time. Or maybe it’s been fate. Who knows if there really is such a thing as fate or if it’s what we make for ourselves. After all we’ve been through a lot of therapy, tears, heartache and have had to work incredibly hard to get to where we are today. But lots of things feel that they have just clicked into place for me and my daughter in 2025.

As the year ends, I’m looking ahead to 2026 with both a sense of hope and apprehension. Hope because of all the plans we already have in place and all that is about to change for us. Apprehension because there is a lot that is about to change for us. I’m feeling a lot of pressure to make the decisions that need to be made for us to deal with these changes. To do what’s “right” for us. It’s hard doing this when you’re the only adult responsible. The weight on my shoulders is huge. But I think I might just do what I’ve been doing for nearly six years. Wing it. And see what happens next. With a little bit of Jason Donovan thrown in for good measure.

Just promise me one thing about what my year holds in store. Never tell me the odds.

The next chapter in my story

An image of the front cover for Is Daddy Going to Be OK? authored by Emma Charlesworth

Five and a half years ago today, on 19 April 2020, my husband died in a global pandemic. 

I write that because when you’re living it, there’s an element that you just survive. You can’t sit and think about it too much because it’s simply too huge. It’s overwhelming. 

When I went to bed on that fateful day, I had no idea what my future held. How I was meant to carry on. How I could raise my daughter without him. I’d never been an adult without him, how was I meant to start at the age of 39? 

A month later, after one of my honest Facebook posts, someone suggested I start writing a blog. I didn’t really know if I could or if I’d have anything to say. But after launching that blog in March 2021, I realised the power of sharing my story. 

Since that day, I’ve been asked countless times if I’m going to write a book. Again. I didn’t really know if I could or if I’d have anything to say. But at my team’s Christmas gathering in 2023, as we went round the group and spoke about what we were hoping to achieve in 2024, I told them I was going to write a book. 

On 22 September 2024, after being away at the Widowed and Young AGM and while having a coffee in the castle my nan spent five years in when she was evacuated in World War II, I wrote the last words of that book. 

I hadn’t quite anticipated what would follow. A return to therapy for me. A realisation of how much I hadn’t processed about my late husband’s death. Another bereavement which knocked me for six. A return to therapy for my daughter. My book felt like the least of my problems. It was written, if it never saw the light of day, did it really matter? 

Except deep down inside, I knew it did matter to me. So. Eventually, I started the process of trying to get it published. I’ve learnt so much this year about just what it takes to get a book published. But for the last few months, I’ve been working intently on making it a reality. And on today’s pertinent date, I’m thrilled, honoured and just a teeny bit scared to reveal more details. 

Is Daddy Going to Be OK? by Emma Charlesworth will be published in November. 

Wow. That statement is almost as sobering as saying my husband died in a global pandemic. 

I’ve done it. I’ve written a book. It’s going to be published. I wonder if I’ll look back in five and a half years and realise that today was the day that I finally took stock of what I’ve achieved? That I’ve spent so long writing, editing and making decisions about it, that I haven’t really reflected on just what it means to have not just written a book, but to have also published one. 

I’m so conscious that this will not be an easy read for so many people. That it might be incredibly painful. As with my thoughts when I launched my blog, I don’t actually know if anyone will read it. But what I do know is that since 19 April 2020, my aim has always been simple. To create a legacy for both my daughter and my late husband to make sure he never becomes a statistic of the pandemic. I hope in some small way, that this book helps me achieve that. 

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Hope is everything

Various pictures of the Charlesworth family to promote Children’s Grief Awareness Week

Two years ago, to mark Children’s Grief Awareness Week, I wrote a blog because the phrase “children are resilient” had been playing heavily on my mind. I felt it was clouding our view of how children who have been bereaved are treated. One of the points I raised that seemed to resonate the most with people was this: 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.

A lot has happened since I wrote that blog, but as I sit here today, on the first day of Children’s Grief Awareness Week 2024, there’s a new thought that is playing heavily on my mind. The fact that my daughter won’t ever really remember a life without grief in it. She won’t ever really remember her mum when she wasn’t grieving. Imagine that. Growing up with grief being part of your everyday life. I hesitate to use the word normal, because that is different for all of us, but ultimately grief, trauma and sadness are part of my daughter’s normal and have been since she was 10 years old. It breaks my heart beyond all belief that her innocence and childhood were snatched from her so cruelly.

Yet when I started thinking about this a bit more, I started thinking about the theme of this awareness week. #BuildingHope. Hope is probably the most pertinent word in my family. It’s the word I have tattooed on my wrist in my late husband’s handwriting. It’s part of my daughter’s name. And the fact that this grief awareness week begins on 18th November is also something that feels pertinent for me. 18th November 1993 is the date that I first really became aware of death and grief. These two things put together are why I knew I needed to write.

I’ve never really spoken about the fact that I too went through grief as a child. Mainly because in 1993, mental health or speaking about your emotions and feelings weren’t really considered. And certainly not for a child. But more than that. As the years have gone by, I have never really felt it was my story to tell. Yes, my family and friends at the time knew about it. It crops up in conversation with people to this day at times. But I haven’t publicly talked about it. I’ve had numerous different bouts of counselling over the years, but it’s never been a topic of discussion, there’s always been what I’ve felt are more pressing things to talk about. Yet recently I’ve stopped to think about how that day itself, the immediate aftermath and the bereavement I went through, haunts me and continues to affect me to this day. I suspect it always will. It’s a part of who I am. Because it is a part of my story. Whether I talk about it publicly or not.

It almost feels a bizarre coincidence in a way that both mine and my daughter’s first real memory and experience of death happened in what were fundamentally national tragedies. That we’ve both had to deal with death against a backdrop of news headlines and TV images. Such completely and utterly different circumstances, but the similarities are there, nonetheless. I was 12 years old. She was 10 years old. Having to adjust to a new reality without someone they loved in it. Becoming acutely aware from a young age that death can happen to anyone. It’s not just old people who die. Being aware of your own mortality before you’re even a teenager. It’s a lot to have to come to terms with.

I think this is what has led me to the realisation about my daughter having grief in her life forever. And I also think this is part of why I have so vehemently pushed her to talk about her grief. To have counselling. To try to help her process and make sense of the trauma she went through. The secondary losses she has faced. The future she faces growing up without her father. I want to do all I can to help her manage this unfathomable loss. To have it be a part of her story but not her whole story. To help her grow around it.

Whenever I talk about her and what she’s faced in my blogs, I always, always check she is comfortable with what I’m going to write. Because ultimately her experience is her story. There are some things which are just too personal to both of us to ever share. I won’t talk about them. I respect her views. Yet when I spoke about this blog, I could see the progress she’s made since that blog two years ago. The little bits of her life she is more comfortable for me to talk about now.

Shortly after I wrote my blog in 2022, my daughter and I joined Winston’s Wish Ambassador Molly for an Instagram Live together with Grace Lee, Director of Marketing and Communications for Winston’s Wish. The concept was for young people to talk directly and openly about their bereavements and grief. It was a classic case of Instagram vs. reality, in the 10 minutes before we went live, my daughter and I had some minor disagreements, she was stroppy with me, I was conscious of time so was blunt back and then the second we went live we switched on the consummate professional act! But as I sat there listening to Molly and then my own daughter, I was struck by just how astute they both were and how much they understood the impact that their bereavements had had on them. My daughter said things about grief that I’d never heard her say before. There were some real lump in the throat moments for me. I’d have never anticipated quite what was going to come our way just a few months later.

Because it was in February 2023 that I took my daughter to our doctor to get her referred for counselling. Her grief had manifested itself into anxiety. And it was becoming more and more difficult to manage. I’d had an inkling that this might happen the day of her great-grandmother’s funeral in January 2022, it was at the same crematorium as her dad’s funeral, she had to face all his family and by the time we got to the evening, she was shaking on the bathroom floor and vomiting. She couldn’t go back to school the next day. The anxiety and the stress that day caused for her was simply too much for her to deal with. It was another loss for her to have to process.

But by 2023, her anxiety had got to the point where she couldn’t leave the house in the morning for school without eight different alarms. Each of which to tell her it was time to do something else, be that go in the bathroom, get dressed or have breakfast. It felt unsustainable. Any change to that routine, a few minutes lost here and there was enough to cause a meltdown. There were days she didn’t even make it into school. She simply couldn’t process change. Everything had to be regimented. I watched as she withdrew into herself more. We argued more because I couldn’t really understand what she was going through. Because I didn’t understand just how crippling her anxiety had become. Just how hard her life was. Until she started her counselling, all I could do was love her and watch her suffer as she tried to make sense in her mind of why she was like this. As she tried to answer the question she posed herself “why am I like this?” It was, quite simply, heartbreaking to watch.

She was nervous about the counselling. She didn’t really know what she’d say. But as I sat on the stairs and listened to her first session, I could hear her talking. I was astonished quite how much the counsellor got her to say. After that I didn’t listen to her sessions, they were personal to her and I knew if there was a major concern, the counsellor would contact me. But for someone who was such a sceptic, these sessions helped her. Even she would admit this. Just last week, she commented on how she only has one alarm now and it goes off 35 minutes later than it did last year. This might sound small to someone who has never experienced anxiety, but to her it’s massive.

And while a lot of her anxiety has dissipated, it is still there. I don’t doubt it always will be to an extent. It’s part of her grief. We have found ways to help her manage it, but if things come at her left field, they do still cause her to feel anxious or to panic. She will openly admit she has trust issues. She struggles to let people in. She has abandonment issues. I don’t doubt that as she gets older, she will need therapy again. Because at different points in her life, she is going to need help to process her emotions. It’s a fact of her life.

And she’s also had to live with my grief being a fact of her life for the last four years. The fact I find myself crying anywhere, a supermarket, the theatre, in the car, the cinema… the list is endless. We recently went to see Paddington in Peru (I cried!) and on the drive home, we saw an ambulance with its blue lights on. No siren, just lights on. My daughter started making the sound of a siren, I laughed and said, “why are you being an ambulance?” To which she simply said “I know you don’t like seeing the blue lights without the sirens. It’s hard for you so I thought I’d add them.” Deep breath moment for me. The realisation that things like that are on her mind. How acutely aware she is of how I feel and my triggers. Three years ago, she was interviewed as part of a study on childhood bereavement, they asked her how her mum was coping. “She keeps herself busy and doesn’t sit still, because if she stops, she’ll have to think about what’s happened to us and she doesn’t want to do that.” Another deep breath moment. Because there are times her emotional intelligence is off the scale. But this also breaks my heart. She shouldn’t have had to become this astute. She shouldn’t have had to live with grief becoming a part of her world at such a young age that she’s been able to gain this understanding.

Her understanding, vulnerability and honesty are just some of her qualities that I am most proud of. I do believe she’s growing up with an empathy that she wouldn’t have if she hadn’t experienced the loss of her father and watched her mother grieving. She knows this herself. Towards the end of last year, she and I had a conversation in what is known as the “Jac McDonald’s” (mainly because this is where we ate before going to see Jac Yarrow on more than one occasion.) And while I’d rather not be having a deep and meaningful over a Big Mac, sometimes you just have to go with the flow of the conversation. She told me that she wouldn’t necessarily change what has happened to her. I was quizzical over this but the way she responded again just made me so proud. Her rationale was that she likes the person she is now, and she doesn’t know if she would be this person if she hadn’t gone through everything she has. Another deep breath moment for me. There is no real response to that. Without question, she will never cease to amaze me with how she has approached everything and the way she now reflects on her life.

Recently she and a friend went to their first gig without a parent. No way would she have been able to do this last year. And while I was a tad neurotic, when I got the text message from her to tell me they’d found their seats, had bought some merchandise and what time they’d worked out they’d need to go to the toilet before the main act, I breathed a sigh of relief. She’s got this was my overarching feeling. And as her friend’s mum and I waited in the venue for the gig to finish, I listened to the lyrics of one of the songs. The words that Henry Moodie sang felt like the perfect way to sum up my daughter’s response to grief and anxiety:

  • I’ve learned to live with my anxieties
  • ‘Cause I’ve got some bad emotions
  • It’s just a part of life, it doesn’t mean I’m broken
  • At the worst of times, I tell myself to breathe
  • Count to three, wait and see that I’ll be okay
  • ‘Cause I’ve got some bad emotions
  • Took a minute, but I’m finding ways of coping.

Anyone who is parenting a child who is bereaved wants to make it better for them. Anyone who has experienced childhood bereavement wants to feel better. Wonders when the grief and the pain might go away. Yet, as I’ve come to realise it doesn’t ever go away. But by talking about it and hopefully breaking some taboos, we can become more understanding of the impact, find techniques for coping and learn ways to support.

#BuildingHope is this year’s theme, and I cannot think of anything that is more fitting. It sounds clichéd. It sounds trite. But speaking as a mother who has watched her child ride the grief rollercoaster these last four years, I do truly believe that building and offering hope to those also experiencing this is one of the most powerful things we can do. 

Quite simply. Hope is everything.