Category: Mental Health

It’s okay not to be okay

Various images of Emma Charlesworth and quotes

Today is the last day of Mental Health Awareness Week, a week that the Mental Health Foundation has been leading since 2001 to bring the UK together to focus on getting good mental health. This year the theme is ‘community.’

It’s an interesting theme that isn’t it? Community makes you think of togetherness, of support and not being on your own, but in my opinion, the reality when it comes to mental health can be very different. Because despite all the great work that has been done over the past few years, mental health can still be a taboo subject. And not necessarily because of society but because of us as individuals. Since this day in 2018 when I made my first public post about a bout of counselling I’d been having to help me process depression and anxiety, I like to think that I’ve benefited from that honesty and the community around me. I’ve been an advocate for talking openly. Yet, towards the end of last year, I went the complete opposite. I stopped being open. I didn’t make use of the community around me. I pretty much struggled in silence.

And I completely know the reason for this. Because I felt like a failure. I’ve always been the sort of person to be a perfectionist and to just keep going, but in a way since my late husband died, I’ve felt a different sort of pressure. The pressure to be brave and strong. These are two words which have been used to describe me countless times. If I’d had a pound for every time I’ve seen them written about me or had them said to me, I probably wouldn’t need to work! I’ve said before that I don’t like the word brave but am coming to accept the word strong, but this has been to my detriment at times. I sometimes feel that f I’m so strong and an inspiration as people repeatedly tell me, how on earth am I meant to admit that I’m struggling, that I need help and that I just need to admit defeat for a while? In my head, I couldn’t let people down. I couldn’t fail at being a widow. I couldn’t let people see that grief was still having an effect over four years since my husband died. If I’m meant to give hope and inspiration to others, what would people think of me if they knew the reality?

But sadly, this was my reality. And I tried to hide from it and pretend it wasn’t, I really did. Yet for a myriad of reasons, towards the end of October, I knew I wasn’t going to be able to hide for much longer. And so, I made a call to our Employee Assistance Programme. I’m so incredibly fortunate to have a service like this at my disposal and it’s something I’ve made use of in the past, so I had an inkling that I knew what was going to happen. As suspected, following my assessment, I was referred for therapy. But a different type of therapy to what I’d had in the past, I was being referred for EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) with CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy). I’d come across these acronyms through others in the Widowed and Young (WAY) community but didn’t really know that much about them. If I’m being perfectly honest, when I first read about EMDR, it sounded a bit kooky to me! How could this possibly work?! Yet I knew I had to give something a try, it was time to finally process the trauma that I went through in 2020. And other trauma from my life up until that point.

You see, deep down inside I know when my mental health has taken a dip. I find it very hard to concentrate. Work feels unmanageable. I have no enthusiasm to do anything. My temper is shorter. I can’t juggle as much as I usually do. Life simply feels too hard. I doom scroll because to do anything else feels pointless. I can see the dip in my mental health in my eyes. My whole demeanour changes. I looked back at a photo of me with a friend that I’d taken in August and was desperate to get back to looking like that. Desperate to see that sparkle and lightness in my eyes. I know the exact moment I realised I’d achieved this aim of mine, but that’s a topic of discussion for another blog.

Yet I pretty much kept all of this and how I was feeling to myself. Colleagues knew because of needing to juggle work and appointments. They’d been slowly watching me go downhill for a while, so when I told my line manager, she told me she’d already flagged that they needed to keep an eye on me. That is one community I’m incredibly lucky to have. Friday was another great example of that community when I spent time with our team on Hampstead Heath as part of the firm’s One Firm One Day. It was great to be outside in the fresh air for the day especially during Mental Health Awareness Week and I became the queen of brambles! As we had a drink afterwards, someone I’ve worked with for a very long time commented that I looked lovely and snapped a pic. It’s one of the ones in the collage above. I looked at it and was reminded once again just how far I’ve come these past nine months.

Anyway. I digress. Back to November. My daughter knew that things weren’t great and I was back in therapy because I want her to feel comfortable talking about mental health and understand that therapy is not a bad thing. A few friends knew, a couple mainly because they’d been sat with me in a prosecco bar while I was crying (classy I’m sure you’ll admit) but I just didn’t feel capable of telling lots of people. It felt exhausting to do so.

And exhaustion is one of the reasons I made that call. My overthinking was off the scale. I’d struggled to sleep again. I’d wake up repeatedly. I would wake up just as exhausted as when I’d gone to bed. Sleep did nothing for me. I was stuck in what felt like an endless loop of being awake and feeling exhausted while all the while knowing the same would happen the following day because it wouldn’t matter whether I got one hours sleep or five, it made no difference. So, I just didn’t need anything else that would add to this exhaustion.

But at all points remember, I can’t give in to this exhaustion. I’m a solo parent, there is no-one else to help with the parenting. The constant juggling of who’ll do the school runs, the dance runs while maintaining a house, working full time, managing finances and trying to live is relentless. Especially when you’re doing all you can to keep yourself busy rather than face what you’re going through. So, I just kept going. I didn’t make the most of the community around me, because it just felt easier to do things myself rather than explain. I didn’t want to discuss what had led to me to reach this point. The realisations I’d had about my life and my behaviour. In a way I felt a little embarrassed that I hadn’t actually realised what I’d been doing. But that’s been my grief journey for you. I lived for so long in “survival” mode. Then I went into “I must live” mode. And then I realised I had to find a middle ground. Somewhere between surviving and running myself into the ground.

I had my first few sessions of therapy and found them absolutely exhausting. Oh good, more exhaustion to add on top. I was so, so tired. This is when I had to rely on another community. The WAY community. I’m on the rota for the New Member Zooms but simply found that the thought of hosting these on a day that I’d had therapy was too much. I had to ask for support to swap sessions. I had to be sensible and look after me. I then dropped a note on the WhatsApp group with other WAY Members that we formed after the AGM last year. I’d been trying to plan something and had just found that I didn’t have the headspace, so felt the need to apologise. Understandably this was an apology that I didn’t really need to make. Everyone got it. And when I admitted that I’d felt like a failure but had since had a word with myself, I was met with comments along the lines of that was good because if I hadn’t had that word, they would have done!

I relaxed into the fact I was back into therapy; I was vulnerable and honest in those sessions. So much came out that I didn’t realise I’d buried and never really processed. The actual EMDR began later than initially planned, but sometimes life just throws different things at you that throws things off course. You can’t really plan for anything. Yet in the run up to this, I started making little changes myself. I started saying no to people. I started to slow down. Christmas 2024 is a prime example of this. For the first time in my life, I spent the day in Christmas PJs. My daughter and I didn’t go anywhere. We didn’t have anyone to us. I cooked for the first time on Christmas Day making the most of Aunt Bessie. I just didn’t need pressure. I didn’t need expectations. This wasn’t about anyone else; this was about doing what I needed. Potentially selfish, but sometimes in life you just have to be. Equally I didn’t over-plan. I didn’t fill our weekends. I sent my therapist some photos of my calendar from August through to October last year vs. the photos of January to February. The difference was palpable. I was beginning to finally feel comfortable to be at home again. Being at home a lot of the time stopped being a trigger and making me feel like I was back living in lockdown when my world fell apart. I was finally starting to realise that I didn’t have to fill my time and always say yes to people in case if I didn’t, they stopped liking me or died.

This is a bold statement, but over the course of the next few months, EMDR* gradually changed my life. I sometimes wondered what people would have thought if they could have seen me sat there for an hour a week, with my eyes shut and just tapping the tops of my arms (my sessions were virtual and so this was the technique used). Things that previously would have caused me untold stress and been difficult to manage no longer were. Some of which had been the case for over 10 years. I couldn’t explain it. I didn’t understand it. I still don’t understand how it works, but it has certainly worked for me. I’m in the position now that I will happily talk about the last six months and my mental health. I can reflect on it in a way I couldn’t do at the start of November. Next week sees my final session and I’m not scared about this. It’s time for me to implement all I’ve learnt on my own.

Yet the past few months haven’t been complete smooth sailing. I completely struggled in March. I would find myself asleep on the sofa at 8pm. The exhaustion crept back in. They say the body keeps score and knows key dates and this certainly felt the case for me this year. The five-year anniversary of my husband dying was very difficult. I can’t pretend otherwise. It would be churlish to do so. But for the first time since he fell ill and died, both my daughter and I have been in therapy at the same time. Because in March I gave her no choice but to go back. Again. A myriad of reasons led to me making this decision for her. But at no point did I think she was a failure. At no point did I think she’d let me down. I knew it was what she needed to help her work through so very much. Funny isn’t it? I can be completely objective about therapy for others, yet when it comes to me, I still put way too much pressure on myself.

But fortunately, she grounds me. Another one of the photos in the collage was a selfie taken exactly one month after my late husband died during Mental Health Awareness Week in 2020. Like I say. I talk about mental health with my daughter so openly. She is way more in tune with mental health than I was at her age. Recently after a fairly hectic day, she simply said to me “you seem stressed, what’s wrong?” And thus began an honest and open conversation about my day and how I was feeling. Similarly, when I said I’d been wondering whether to write a blog to mark Mental Health Awareness Week but wasn’t sure whether I’d have anything to say, she simply gave me a look and said I’d have plenty, after all I could also talk about her. The fact she’s growing up with this attitude fills me with hope for her future, maybe, just maybe she won’t feel like a failure if she ends up needing therapy as she gets older. That she’ll learn to trust and lean on the community around her. That she’ll be comfortable being honest, open and vulnerable.

After all. Vulnerability is a superpower. Imagine just how much more powerful we’d be as a community if we leaned into this a teeny bit more.

*It goes without saying that this is my personal experience of EMDR and CBT. I am not an expert on these therapies and cannot provide advice on them.  

You will be ok

Happy Birthday.

Right now, it doesn’t feel like your birthday. You’re living in the middle of a global pandemic. Your husband was taken by ambulance after a panic 999 call in the early hours of this morning. Your 10-year-old daughter asked you if her daddy was going to be ok and you honestly couldn’t tell her yes. Because he has fallen prey to this pandemic which isn’t selective with its victims. You’re trying to juggle 1,001 things right now and don’t know which way is up. You’re going through a vast array of emotions.

But. It is still your birthday. You need to cling to that. Later today your daughter is going to save your birthday for you. She is going to make you open your cards and presents. She is going to put 39 candles in your cake. She is going to do a video call with members of your family to get them to sing Happy Birthday to you. And don’t forget. This morning you fried an egg for the first time in your life and cooked a bacon and egg sandwich because it’s your birthday. That sandwich represented hope, and you need to remember that. Because hope is everything. It is the one thing that is going to get you through what lies ahead.

The next three weeks are going to be some of the most challenging and difficult weeks of your life. The rollercoaster you’re now on is going to be a heck of a ride. But the theme of a rollercoaster is going to play a huge part in your life. Keep it in mind. You’re going to be reliant on phone calls for updates about your husband. You’re only going to be able to see him via Skype calls. You’re going to have some of the most heartbreaking conversations with your daughter. You’re going to face impossible decisions. I simply can’t pretend any of this is going to be easy. It’s not. But. You’re also going to smile during the next three weeks. Tomorrow Jason Donovan is going to be on Gary Barlow’s Crooner Sessions. He’ll start following you on Twitter. You’re going to be the recipient of so much kindness from so many people. You’ll feel overwhelmed by it all.

And then. On 19th April, your entire life as you know it will be over. You won’t start using the term on this day, but you’ll become a 39-year-old widow. Your husband will die without you by his side and with the amazing NHS staff holding his hand. You and your daughter will be watching a film when you get the call to say this has happened, but you’ll never be able to agree on which film it was. Shock, quite probably. You’ll very quickly go into survival mode. You’ll think about everyone else because it’s too painful to actually think about what this means for you. The pain is merely too great for you to process. You can’t. And you won’t be able to for a very long time.

You’ll physically and metaphorically need picking up. You’ll struggle to get up off the sofa. You’ll fall apart on the kitchen floor when you realise you’ve got food in the cupboard you won’t eat. You’ll shed more tears than you physically thought possibly. You’ll plan a funeral in a pandemic and be asked questions about it that you simply have no answer to. You’ll struggle with the concept of how to return to work, be a mother and juggle your life. You won’t really think about what you as Emma will need. As an individual and person in her own right. You’ve never been an adult on your own. Who even are you without him? Again, you’ll hide from this because you don’t have the answer.

Your mental health is going to suffer in a way you’d have never thought possible. You’re going to find yourself hitting rock bottom on more than one occasion. Sadly, this isn’t the only shock bereavement you’re going to face. I can’t bear to tell you the other person you’re going to lose, mainly because I’m still trying to make sense of it. There is genuinely no logic as to who lives and who dies. But when that day does come, take advantage of the people who are now able to hold you. Who can wrap you in their arms, make you feel safe and just let you cry. You’re going to understand just how important physical contact is in grief. It’s not something you’re going to be able to receive when your husband first dies. Or for a number of months. The world isn’t allowing it. But when you can get those hugs again, soak them up. They are going to help you. More than you realise.

The trauma you’re experiencing today and over the next few weeks isn’t going to be something you can keep buried forever. You’re going to spend a huge amount of time in therapy. And while I don’t want to scare you, this isn’t going to be in the first year or so. You’ll have some later this year, then in 2022 which will last for just over a year and then you’ll start having EMDR towards the end of 2024 going into 2025. The latter will scare you when you first make the call and are told you need it. You’ll feel you’re a failure. You’ll feel you’re letting people down. You won’t tell many people. You’ll have spent just over four years with everyone telling you how brave and strong you’re. That you’re an inspiration. To admit you still need help will feel alien. But, let me promise you this now. That bout of therapy is going to completely change things for you. It is going to help you process so very much. Not just to do with the trauma of losing your husband, but parts of your life you’ve just learnt to live with and accepted as being your life. You’ll start to feel like a different person. Your mindset will shift. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to, but my goodness Emma, it’s going to be beyond worth it.

This all sounds very doom and gloom doesn’t it? If you’re still reading at this point, I imagine there is a sense of trepidation. Wondering whether you’re ever going to really laugh, smile or be happy again. Hand on my heart, you will. You’ll feel guilty to begin with, because how you can possibly enjoy life given what’s happened? You’re going to have amazing opportunities that are only afforded to you because of what’s happened. That will make you feel guilty. New people are going to come into your life. People who are currently part of your life will no longer be so. Or if they are, it will be on a different footing. Please don’t worry about this. Life and your experiences will change you. But you have to survive this however you can. For you. For your daughter. Don’t be afraid to trust your gut instinct. Do you.

Because you’re pretty phenomenal. It’s going to take you just under five years to reach this conclusion, but without question you are. Those people that call you brave and strong? They’re right. You are. You won’t ever accept that you’re brave, after all, you haven’t chosen this life have you? But my word are you strong. You’ve had to be. You’ve shown so much strength. You’ll get out of bed every single day. You’ll continue to show up. Even on those days when you don’t want to.

But more than that. You’re going to achieve a heck of a lot in his memory and that will help others. For a long time, you’re going to tell people that you’re just doing what anyone would do in this situation. But not everyone would. Because not everyone is you. You’re going to install a Memorial Bench so that your husband can continue to be a part of your daughter’s birthday traditions. You’re going to sort out renovations on the house and finally get it finished. You’re going to come up with initiatives that will see you raise over £15,000 for various charities (and that’s only up to March 2025). You’re going to launch a blog called Life is a rollercoaster (told you not to forget about a rollercoaster, didn’t I?) It will go on to win an award in 2023. You’re going to write a book and start investigating the best way to get this published. You’re going to appear on various podcasts, TV programmes, in magazines and newspapers. You’re going to become an Ambassador for the charity Widowed and Young.

Yet the biggest achievement from your perspective won’t be any of this. It is going to be the moment you look at photos and see the twinkle and sparkle in your eyes again. It will take years to return. But it does return. Some might call them giddy eyes. More than ever, your eyes are going to be the window to your soul. And until you’re you again, they are going to show your pain. You will look at photos over the next couple of years and think you’re looking better. You are in a way. But it will only be as you approach your fifth birthday since your world fell apart, that you’ll be able to see just how much the grief and pain affected you physically. Not just mentally. Grief and pain will change you. But you’re going to learn to walk alongside them. In a way, they’re going to become your friends. Because they’re a constant reminder of the love you had. The love you still have.

And while I don’t want to give too many spoilers, mainly because you won’t believe some of them anyway, I do want to give you a little sneak peek into some of the other things that are going to come your way over the next five years. You’re going to have so much fun and laughter with a variety of people. You’re going to meet incredible people through the charity Widowed and Young. You’re going to watch your daughter receive coaching from Jac Yarrow (yes, that guy you saw play Joseph last year). You’re going to get a marriage proposal from Jason Donovan. You’re going to travel across the country to meet a random woman off Twitter because of that Aussie who is going to become one of the best people in your life. You’re going to be adopted by a Northern family. You’re going to get your middle out with a two-piece outfit, on more than one occasion. You’re going to go viral on social media. You’re going to get a dog. You’re going to take your daughter on holidays overseas. You’re going to fluke a free business class upgrade the first time you take her abroad. You’re going to brave driving abroad and find that you quite like it, even if you’re given a scary American muscle car. You’re going to grow your hair and go blonde. You’re going to change your role and teams at work.

I know being told this about your future sounds completely and utterly unthinkable right now. But please believe me when I say you did everything you could in this unimaginable situation you’ve found yourself in over the last week or so. There is nothing more you could have done or that would have changed the outcome. I know right now you can only really focus on today. And maybe even only the next hour. Anything beyond that and especially the future is unfathomable. That’s ok. Just focus on that for now. It’s the right thing to do. Stay in your pyjamas. Eat cake and brownies for breakfast. Just do what you need to do each day. For you. For your daughter. She ultimately is going to save you. She’s incredible. She’s the reason you’ll fight as hard as you do. Without her, it would have been very easy for you to give up. But she needs you. She loves you. And while you’re going to clash and have exceptionally tough times, the bond and relationship that you’re going to have is going to be unbreakable. Team Charlesworth is about to become pretty formidable.

As I sit here and think about the fact the world is still turning, that you’re lucky enough to be celebrating another birthday and you’re privileged to be growing older, I’ve realised something.

Pretty phenomenal? Scrap that.

Emma Charlesworth you are phenomenal.

Simple as that. I’m so exceptionally proud of you. I didn’t know you had it in you to be able to survive this on 30th March 2020. I didn’t have the self-belief. You’re going to watch a film in February 2025 that contains the line “it’s not enough to survive, you’ve got to live.” And that’s what you’re going to do over the next five years Emma. You’re going to live again. Not just survive, you’re going to live. You’re going to thrive. Against all the odds. Against the most unimaginable backdrop.

These words are the best present I can give you today. The reassurance, knowledge and encouragement that you need. That I wish someone could have given me on this day five years ago.

Emma Charlesworth, you will be ok. I promise. Focus on these four words. Please.

You. Will. Be. Ok.

Goodbye 2024

Various photos of Emma and Rebekah Charlesworth taken in 2024

Discombobulating. Sometimes just one word can perfectly sum up your year. This for me is the word that works best for 2024. I’ve thought of some other ones, but the language might have been a teeny bit stronger than this. So, I’m sticking with this one. 

I ended my 2023 year end blog asking for one thing… “never tell me the odds.” Turns out once again I was right about not really knowing what 2024 would bring. I can’t sit here now and say it’s all been bad, there has been so much positive, but it’s not all been cupcakes and rainbows. I’d have been incredibly naïve to have expected it to be all truth be told. But I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have a year that feels settled for the whole year. When I might be able to look back and not have a tear in my eye as I remember some parts of the year. If I’m honest, I’m not convinced it’s possible for this to ever happen. Because that’s life. It’s full of the good, the bad and the ugly. And I guess you could say that’s been the biggest thing to have come out of 2024. Beginning to accept this. And accepting that I have to change. 

But let’s start at the very beginning. For that is a very good place to start. A few days into 2024, I experienced a leak in my house. Leaks became a definite part of my 2024. But I handled it well. I just got on with it, didn’t cry and just dealt with the consequences. It felt like I’d turned a bit of a corner from when I’d had a leak when I went to Butlins just a few months prior. I was on the up. I was focusing on the positive. It felt good. My daughter had her birthday in January and a group of teenagers descended on my house one Friday night, doing karaoke and playing Just Dance. They then all went shopping the following day and I spent the day mooching around, making the most of time in the sales and just generally relaxing. 

I’d like to say that February was pretty non-descript, but I suspect that if I didn’t mention a certain thing that happened in February, my daughter would write a letter of complaint to me. For this was the month that she undertook some coaching with Jac Yarrow, a West End star who we had first seen play Joseph in 2019. Granted, I only took my daughter to see Joseph because Jason Donovan was in it… that’ll teach me! But as I sat outside my lounge door and listened to her sing I Dreamed A Dream from Les Misérables, I couldn’t have been prouder. I thought back to the same time the previous year. When she had just been referred for counselling to help her manage her anxiety and how there wouldn’t have been a hope in hell of her being able to do this. Something so unexpected, yet so rewarding. Who knew when that happened that Jac would be going into Les Misérables in 2024 and she’d get to watch him on stage doing what he does best. Or that she’d audition and sing I Dreamed A Dream at her school’s Winter Festival. I guess this is what I meant when I said, “never tell me the odds.”

And while I’m not necessarily going to go through every month in order, I couldn’t not mention March and April. This was when things really started to shift. When I started believing in myself a bit more. When I started breaking bad habits. Or at least attempting to. I began watching TV after my daughter went to bed. Something that had taken me nearly four years to do. I began life coaching sessions with Sheryl Findlay. I invested in me. One of the toughest decisions I’ve ever made, because, let’s face it, how many of us actually invest in ourselves? And then. At the end of March, I pushed myself completely out of my comfort zone. My daughter and I got on a plane to California to do the trip that my late husband and I had always planned for my 40th birthday. I can’t lie, in the run up to the holiday I just keep thinking “I don’t know, I’m making this up as I go” even though the laminated itinerary had been triple and quadruple checked. But I was beyond nervous. It was the first time I had taken my daughter overseas to somewhere I’d never been before. It was the first time I had ever driven abroad. I was scared. But as we picked up at our hire car in San Francisco and the customer services adviser said, “You need to go to level C for Charlie in the car park,” I knew we were going to be ok. I knew that our guardian angel was continuing to watch over us.

Admittedly, I think that guardian angel would have been slightly despairing on hearing my daughter say “what is that? It’s weird” when she looked at the car. Because much to my surprise, we were given a Dodge Challenger. A proper American muscle car. I had to take a deep breath. Here was I, never having driven abroad and about to drive at least 500 miles in a big, scary car. It was black which only made it look slightly meaner. If I’m honest, red would have been the only other colour to have. I sent photos to male friends back home, most of whom were despairing because they knew I wouldn’t have been driving it the way it deserved to be driven! But the main point here is that I did it. My daughter and I did it. Yes, there were difficult moments and arguments during the holiday, there were always going to be, but we also made memories and had such a lovely time. I was so proud of us. And as we went whale watching in Monterey Bay, I knew that my late husband was proud of us too. We saw incredible pods of orcas, so much so that the tour guide asked who on the boat had good karma because he rated it amongst his top three trips (and he’s been doing this trip for nine years with three tours a day). 

The 2024 CharlieFest in honour of Mr C’s 50th birthday year then took place, it had felt like the right time to host our next fundraising event. I was so nervous going into it, more nervous than I had been in 2022 because it felt like there was more at stake. This was going to be the one that determined whether I could sell tickets and do another one in the future. I needn’t have worried. We raised just over £2,500 for the Intensive Care Unit at Medway Hospital. It was once again humbling. And once again, I had an exceptionally proud mum moment when I watched my daughter duet with her father thanks to the magic of technology and the wonderful dedication and hard work of his band members. I’m not actually convinced there was a dry eye in the house. I couldn’t have asked for more from her or the day itself. Yet as we rapidly approached my late husband’s 50th, I got my first real inkling of how much grief is still affecting me. The struggle as we hit our fifth Fathers’ Day without him. The admitting that his 50th was affecting me way more than I’d anticipated it would and the need to take some time out of from work and reset for a little bit. I wish I’d learnt my lesson then. I wish I’d realised just how much I needed to make sure I continue to rest and reset. But I didn’t. 

As I continued to push myself and do so much over the summer, including watching my daughter perform in Disneyland Paris (yet another proud mum moment of 2024) and being terrified by Darth Vader while I was there, I could see from our calendar that life was going to get hectic as we went into the autumn. The calendar that was always full. The insane trips we went on under my mantra “life is too short.” It’s little wonder that at the end of October, everything came crashing down around me. The life that I’d been living simply became too much. I knew I had to make tough decisions. Why? Because I couldn’t keep it up anymore. I realised I’d essentially been playing a bizarre game of peekaboo with myself. Hiding from the truth. Constantly trying to keep busy because being at home triggers too much in me of being in lockdown when my world fell apart. Being scared to say no to people because I worry that they might not like me if I do or that they might die. Not realising that actually everything I joked about as being normal for my life was, in fact, me living with trauma and not knowing how to process it. 

After being mentally and physically exhausted due to not sleeping, possibly for the first time ever, I knew something had to give. No longer would my sister have been able to say, “she’s good in bed” because I’m a heavy sleeper and don’t move (though this is definitely the line that’s going on my online dating profile should I ever attempt this again). Instead, had she stayed with me she no doubt would have been saying “she fidgets, she talks in her sleep, she’s an absolute nightmare in bed.” I made a call. I was assessed. I was referred to a therapist. I haven’t told many people this. Mainly because I felt like a failure. I’d been so proud in a blog I wrote in October that my daughter and I hadn’t needed therapy this year, that I felt I’d be letting so many people down if I admitted it. 

Yet I’ve since had a word with myself and reminded myself that I’m not a failure. If I’m honest, I think I’m probably the strongest I’ve ever been right now. So much of that is down to all the work I did with Sheryl. Investing in myself in this way has paid such dividends. She helped me realise things I was holding back. She inspired me. She helped me plan my future and look at all I want to achieve. Gave me realistic ways I could do this. She did, in essence, become one of my biggest cheerleaders. And I simply cannot thank her enough. There is one particular project I spent a lot of the year working on which would never have happened without her and other friends believing in me. I hope that 2025 sees that come to fruition. 

But the trouble with being strong, is that in a way, you also become weak. Because you accept your vulnerabilities more. They’re your superpower but when you’re strong enough, you realise you need to process and accept everything that is holding you back. Everything that you’re scared of. You realise your own self-worth. What you deserve. What you need. From so many different aspects of your life. This has been the biggest learning curve of 2024 for me. That all the external fears and worries I have pale into insignificance really. That the biggest threat to me, is actually me. When it comes to me, I am the danger. By not being honest with myself and hiding from me. I need to become comfortable with just resetting. Of not pushing myself. Of doing what is right for me in the moment. Of not trying to do 1,000 things all the time out of fear. Of not trying to be the one who saves relationships. Of not trying to rescue situations out of fear and worry. People have hurt me this year. But I’ve realised that it says more about them than it does about me. And fundamentally, if they don’t come with me into 2025, that’s on them. It’s their loss. Because 2025 is the year when I start focusing on and looking after me and my daughter. 

I’m doing this not just for us, but for two other important people who were a huge part of my life and for over two decades tried to get me to slow down. One of these was my late husband. The other, a close friend of mine who unexpectedly died towards the end of this year. In one of our last conversations, I shared what I’ve written about in this blog, and I went into more detail about my overthinking. There was no judgement, they were simply staggered that they’d never realised this about me. That my propensity to do so much came from fear, and not because I’m just a nightmare who likes to keep busy. I mentioned earlier that I got my first real inkling of how much grief is still affecting me back in June, but in December this really hit home. Shock deaths are likely to do this, but I could never have envisaged how triggered I would be by this. And in a move which would have shocked them both, I stopped. I took time out from work. I sat at home. I didn’t try to be everything to everyone. I put me first. I said no to people. I didn’t make additional plans. Christmas Day saw my daughter and I sit in PJs, cuddle on the sofa, watch TV and just be. It was our simplest and most underrated Christmas ever. It was, in amongst all the sadness and memories of Christmases’ past, the perfect Christmas for us this year. 

I go into 2025 with a heavy heart. I would be lying to say otherwise. The five year anniversary of the pandemic and my husband’s death is looming. But I also go into it with hope. It’s what’s got me through the last five years. I know I’m doing all I can to become a better version of me over the next few months. I have a cunning plan for what I’m going to do to mark what would have been our 20th wedding anniversary. I hope that by the summer I really will be able to appreciate the simpler things in my life. The breeze winnowing through the grass. Splashing in puddles on a rainy day. Just sitting. The minor things that happen every day but give cause to be thankful for. 

But above all else, I’m looking forward to finally being comfortable being me. Deep down inside I know I’m pretty phenomenal. 2025 is when I want to be able to believe it. I just don’t know what else 2025 is going to bring. But that’s ok. It doesn’t scare me as much as it would have done a year ago. 

I already know that there are two words which will feature heavily in 2025: Jason. Excessive. As for the rest of it and what else 2025 will bring? Never tell me the odds. 

I am not Wonder Woman

Image of quote regarding vulnerability being a superpower and image of a caricature

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. 

Be Thankful

Images of different sayings for Be Thankful and the original message from my niece

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.

Learning to live with the unimaginable…

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.

One tip run at a time…

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…

The art of being social

Since 3 July, I’ve posted five times on Instagram. I’ve posted 12 tweets. For someone who usually posts a daily #BeThankful on both platforms and actively uses them, this is unusual behaviour. But taking this step back is absolutely something I’ve needed to do. I’ve needed to take some time out from the world. To take stock. To look after me. To have some very much needed R&R. This was what I shared with the world on Wednesday when I decided I was going to start dabbling on social media again. With a picture of a quote from one of our favourite John Mayer songs “I’m in repair. I’m not together but I’m getting there…”

Because I am getting there. And as I reflect on the past month, I can honestly say that I have missed being “social.” Not to begin with, because social media can be a double edged sword. As much as I like it, seeing people celebrating wedding anniversaries, moving house, having fun in couples, going on holiday or photos of dads with their children can at times just be too painful. It’s a reminder of what I’ve lost. But over the last week or so I’ve found myself wanting to start using these platforms again. Partly because I consider myself to now be in repair with a brain somewhat functioning again (rather than being at rock bottom) but also because it’s become a part of who I am. I know social media is an intensely personal preference. Some people love it, some hate it and some are in between. And don’t get me wrong. As much I as enjoy using it, I don’t profess to be a social media influencer (mainly because I don’t even know what that means!) but I do like and value the platform social media gives me (even if at times Instagram confuses me!)

It’s why I made a very conscious decision to use social media as a way of telling our story when Mr C fell ill last year. It would have been easy to hide away and not use it, but that’s just not who I am. I firmly believe social media isn’t just about the positives. Life isn’t cupcakes and rainbows all the time so why should your social media feeds be this way? But more than that. When Mr C fell ill, we were right at the start of the first lockdown. There were no such things as support bubbles or childcare bubbles. The only support I was able to get was via phone calls, via messages, via Zoom calls or via social media. The wealth of love and support I got was overwhelming. I’ll forever be grateful for it. One of my colleagues and friends sent me a Twitter DM and asked how I was on a particularly bad day. I answered honestly how I was feeling, and she then promised to check in on me every single day. She did. It meant a lot. And despite the physical loneliness and pain of what I was going through, I can remember thinking at the time how fortunate I was that all this was happening to me at a time when technology made that contact that much easier. I knew that via any number of platforms, there would always, always be someone I could reach out to if I needed to. And just type what I was thinking. It was invaluable. Why? Because when your world is falling apart and you don’t know which way is up, actually speaking to people can be so, so hard. I lost count of the phone calls I had when people would ask how I was, and I’d not be able to answer or would just simply cry on them. I was always so very mindful of how hard that must have been for those at the other end of the phone. Unable to do anything but merely try and offer small words of comfort to a woman whose entire life had been torn apart.

Yet despite this decision, there has been so much over the last 16 months that I haven’t shared. Because so much is incredibly personal to me and my family. What you see on any of my platforms is the snapshot of my life that I am comfortable to share. There is so very much more to me than this but I actually feel it would be quite dull if I shared everything, because in all honesty, I’m just a 40 year-old trying to get by and I really don’t do very much. If I was to post every time I have a wobble or a cry or a bad day or even just something I consider a small win, it really would get quite monotonous. But the people who know me, know that despite whatever I choose to share on social media, these everyday occurrences, falling apart and good moments are still happening. But I also don’t post about them all because I don’t necessarily want to be reminded of them in years to come via Facebook Memories or Timehop. I’m regularly sideswiped when memories of family activities or time with Mr C crop up, I don’t need to be reminded in years to come of how ridiculously difficult and heartbreaking my life has been since 22 March 2020. Because without a shadow of a doubt these feelings and memories will stay with me for as long as I live. Instead, I want to be reminded of the new memories my daughter and I are creating. What we’re doing to honour Mr C. Things that are making me smile. Yet, unwittingly, to the outside world this seems to create a parallel reality. A few months ago, I had someone tell me via a Facebook post that I am “always so happy.” Seven months after my husband died. At that point I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d have used the phrase “so happy” and so quickly refuted that statement on the post. I’ll openly acknowledge that I share aspects of what we’re doing, and that I am having to continue living my life. For me. For my daughter. But the phrase that was used to describe this started to make me think about the perception social media inadvertently creates vs. reality.

As I’ve said, I’ve been incredibly lucky with the support I’ve had via social media. But for me what is interesting is the different approach people have to what they say on social media vs. their everyday actions. I’ve had people comment that they will “always be there for me” but then not return phone calls or acknowledge messages I send. Forgive me if I’m missing something, but if you’re telling the social media world that you’ll always be there for me but aren’t in the real world isn’t that a bit of a disconnect? Now don’t get me wrong, I know only too well how much of a juggle life can be trying to fit everything in and stay in touch, but little things like this get me thinking.

I’ve had people de-friend me since Mr C died. I’ve had people delete posts they’ve made where I’ve offered a different perspective to their viewpoint. I struggle to understand why. Isn’t the clue in the title? Social media? Isn’t the whole point of it to be able to share different views, have conversations and generally be social? Again, I don’t profess to know the exact reason that I’ve been de-friended or why posts have been deleted, but from my point of view if you can’t offer a different perspective when people make posts, then I’m not sure it’s worth it. It’s like in any other social setting. I can spend evenings with friends, family or colleagues and we can have discussions. Not everyone will think the same, not everyone will agree and there will always be different viewpoints, but the difference is you can’t just delete something you’ve said in person and try to pretend it never existed. Why should social media be any different to the real world? I love a good debate, I don’t expect everyone to have the same opinion as me and in fact I’d hate it if we suddenly all had to agree and be the same. That would make the world an incredibly dull place in my view!

But, what makes me most sad, is that on more than one occasion this year I’ve used the phrase that my daughter “is for life, not just for social media.” She’s only 11 and, despite her constant badgering for TikTok, I don’t yet allow her to be on any social media platform. Mainly because, in my opinion, she doesn’t have the emotional maturity for it. She’s a child. She’s trusting. She takes people at face value. She believes people when they say they’re going to do something. So, if she had seen half of the comments I’ve had on the various posts I’ve made over the last 16 months, she’d have had far greater expectations of people. And right now, she’d be feeling incredibly let down. Because it’s very easy to put a comment or a like on a post I make but the reality is that she doesn’t see these and needs real-life support. And while I’ll always be so very grateful for all the virtual support I’ve had, and will continue to receive, over the past few months I’ve realised that I’ve also needed that real-life support more than ever. And I’d underestimated just how much until Mr C’s Memorial Service last month.

It will probably come as no surprise to those who know me or who are familiar with grief and bereavement that this Memorial Service is what ultimately led me to withdraw from social media for a while. Quite simply there was too much in my brain in the lead up to it, and in the immediate aftermath to even begin to think about posting content. But over the last month or so since I’ve taken a step back, I’ve also realised how much of a part of my everyday life social media has become. How it can actually be used for good and have a great impact. When your friend has a baby but because of all the various lockdowns you can’t physically visit them, you can still see news about them and watch them grow (we’ve finally be able to meet the baby who is now 13 months old and every bit as gorgeous as social media would have you believe). When you post a blog and a stranger takes the time to send you a message to say “I don’t know if you need to hear this, but I wanted to let you know you’ve helped a stranger today.” When you feel like the only person in the world to have a problem and post on the private Widowed and Young group and receive a ton of encouragement and support to reassure you that you’re not alone. When someone from the other side of the world messages you because she’s heard your podcast, noticed the similarities of your stories and subsequently becomes a friend you can turn to. I could go on. But ultimately social media has, and I’ve no doubt will, continue to have a positive influence on my life.

So, as I continue my repair of me and head back to work tomorrow, I know that my social media usage will be increasing again. Because I’ve missed my work Twitter family. I’ve missed the banter with all the Jason fans (although admittedly this has been on the increase over the past few days). I’ve missed doing a daily #BeThankful. I’ve missed engaging with people that I’d never normally come into contact with. But if I’ve learnt anything during my time away, it’s that as the world starts to open up again there is absolutely a place in my life for both social media and the real world. I don’t want to withdraw and hide away from the real world because it’s easier to hide behind words and pictures. I need physical and real-life contact. I value social media interaction more than I can really articulate and wouldn’t change it for the world, but I will always, always need the phone calls, the messages, the chats and catch ups. But most importantly. The hugs. I know that as I work through this current phase of my grief, I’m going to need a lot of hugs and hand holding. And you simply can’t get that through watching the likes and comments increase on a social media post.

A letter to my 15-year-old self

I’m writing this to you today because I really wish someone had been able to tell me this 25 years ago. To reassure me that everything was going to be ok. To let me know that I would survive everything that life had to throw at me. Many people are looking back at 1996 right now, each one of them with their own reasons for doing so. But for you, 1996 is going to be the start of your life changing. It’s important you understand just how important this year is going to be.

So. Quite simply, 1996 is going to be a pivotal year for you. It’s going to be one you’ll remember for many reasons and for many years to come. Not least of which will be Euro 96 and the heartache that will come from a missed penalty. Don’t worry though, you’ve only got to wait another 25 years for a tournament like it. Although, spoiler alert. There’s going to be penalties involved again.

I must admit I’m going to start shallow with my words of advice. Right now, you’ve still got long hair, yet within a couple of years you’re going to cut this off. I know, I know, you’re laughing at this prospect. But you will, you’ll spend most of your adult life with short hair and whenever it grows, you won’t feel like you. Go with it, dye your hair, try different styles but always go back to short hair. It looks good on you.

And now for the serious stuff. Over the course of this year, you’re going to fall in love for the first time. It’ll feel like the best thing in the world. He’ll make you feel like the most special person in the world. However. You’re also going to have your heart broken for the first time too. This is something that you’re going to have go through, it’s almost like a rite of passage. All I can say is that it will hurt like hell. You’re going to shed a bucketload of tears. It’s going to leave you taking a sharp intake of breath whenever you hear certain songs. Always. But you’ll reach a point where these songs will not only cause that intake of breath, but also make you smile. Why? Because you are going to get over this heartbreak. Honestly. It will become a part of your story. I won’t lie to you though. You’re going to hate him for a while, you’re going to want horrible things to happen to him, you’ll think you’re never going to recover and that you’re never going to love again but you really are. On more than one occasion. But do you know what? Don’t be too quick to judge him. Don’t waste your time on hate. Because as inconceivable as this is going to sound right now, that first boyfriend is going to turn out to be not all bad. Really. He’s going to end up becoming one of your closest friends. He’s going to be a rock for you after the death of your husband (we’ll come onto that bombshell in a bit). He’s going to be one of the key people holding you up. Crazy huh?!? But I promise you it’s true. You’re going to be incredibly lucky that he not only comes into your life in 1996, but that he stays a part of it.

But of far more significance to you, 1996 is going to be the year you’ll meet your future husband. Of course, you won’t know this at the time, but he really is going to come into your life in the summer. You’ll meet him standing by his blue fiesta outside Central Park, the home of Sittingbourne FC. You won’t give him a second thought. He won’t actually give you a second thought to be begin with. Over the course of the next few months and years when people ask you who he is, you’ll say “just Charlie.” 1996 is the year that he’ll move from Essex to Kent, a key factor in how and why he’ll start to appear in your life more and more. Don’t underestimate the role that he’s going to play. Cut him a bit of slack when he tries to woo you. Still play hard to get, because it’ll give you a story to tell, but just try to prepare yourself for the massive impact that man is going to have on your life.

I know you worry that you’re not the most popular girl at school. But it really, really doesn’t matter. Because you have such an amazing group of friends there and that counts for so, so much. Always treasure them. Over the next 25 years you’re going to need them in different ways and at different times. But always, always treasure them. They get you. Even when you don’t see them for a few years, when you get together it will feel like nothing has changed. And during the most difficult times of your life they’ll be there. Without fail. Without judgement. But more than this. You are going to go on to meet and make other wonderful and supportive friends. You’re going to meet and have so many fabulous people in your life. You’re going to be so loved. And while some friendships will drift apart, that’s only natural after all, the ones where there’s no demand or expectation from either side will be the ones that see you through. You’ll count your blessings that you have so many of them.

This year, you’re going to start looking ahead to your career and future as you start to consider your A-Level choices. Right now, you’re going to see yourself as a journalist. You’re going to apply to university to study journalism. But your A-Level results aren’t going to go the way you planned. You’re not going to get into your first-choice university. But you will still go. You will still persevere with the course for three months. But then one day, you’re going to realise it’s not right for you. You’re going to drop out. It’s one of the bravest things you’re ever going to do. Doing what’s right for you. You need to remember to do more of this. Putting you first and doing what’s right for you. Again, I’m not going to lie, you’re going to feel scared and nervous. You’re going to wonder what next, but it will all fall into place. You will go on to have a good career. It’s going to change over time, you’ll head down a secretarial route before switching to marketing but you’re going to be just fine. Of course, there will be instances during your career where’ll you have had enough. Where you’ll be beyond frustrated. Where you’ll query why you bother. Where you’ll want to quit. But just keep going. Things have a funny way of turning out for the best when you least expect it. Just remember that you’re the one in control. You’re the one that can change things. And don’t be afraid to. This is your life, nobody else can live it for you.

And throughout your career, there’ll be one constant. The people. Your colleagues. Who will become friends and confidantes. Who’ll offer support and a friendly ear. Who’ll be there with gin and fried food. Who’ll be there with doughnuts. Who’ll be there with “Smile Thursdays”. Who’ll be there with straight talking. Who’ll give you the tough love you need. And above all else, will help look after you in a way that you simply won’t think possible on the day you walk through the doors of 1 Embankment Place for the first time. You’re not going to, but I just want to tell you to never, ever take them for granted

Yet without fail, I wish I could prepare you for just how much heartache you’re going to go through. And to give you the knowledge that you will make it through all of it. That heartache is going to come in many forms. It will come when you must confront living with depression and anxiety. It will come when your boyfriend is diagnosed with cancer and you have no idea if he’s going to make it. It will come every month when you just can’t fall pregnant. It will come when close friends tell you that they’re pregnant again and you break down on them. It will come when you’re pregnant with your second child and have a missed miscarriage. That “what if” of that baby will never go away, but the pain of this and the other heartaches will ease with time.

Right. Take a deep breath before you read this next paragraph. Because, this is the one where I talk about you being widowed. Where I tell you that this will happen when you’re 39. Where I tell you that the greatest heartache you’ll have to face will come in 2020, when your husband of 14 years (that random guy you met in 1996) will die during a global pandemic. (Oh yes, incidentally during 2020 and 2021 you’re going to have to live through a global pandemic and your entire life will be turned upside down). The pain and heartache this will cause you will be nothing like you have ever, ever felt before. That broken heart in 1996? A mere paper cut compared to this. The grief is going to be unbearable at times. You are going to break. You are going to hit rock bottom. You are going to think you’re doing ok and then get side swiped and fall apart. But the one thing you absolutely need to remember is to ask for help. To admit that you can’t do this alone. To let the tears flow when they need to do. To be kind to yourself. To stop. To breathe. To acknowledge just how difficult this is. As I write this, I don’t know if you’re ever going to love or feel love like it again. But I do know that you’ll feel the love from your husband for a very long time.

But above all else, I want you to know just how much joy and happiness there’s going to be in your life. How despite all the heartache and hardships you’re going to go through, you will smile. How you will enjoy your life. How you’re going to have a beautiful and simply inspirational daughter even though it’ll take you a while to get her. How you’re going to meet some truly brilliant people when you cave and take her to postnatal group in the vague hope she might find some friends. How you will go on to make so many fabulous memories with these people. How there’s going to be so much laughter in your life. How you’ll stop worrying about everything all the time. How you’ll stop trying to fit in and how you’ll come to actually quite like yourself. This is the one thing I wish more than anything that you could know, and I could teach you. It would change your life during your 20s and 30s. But by the time you reach 40, you’ll know this. Promise.

I know you’re never going to see this. But you’ll never know how much I wish you could have. To have had someone confirm that despite everything you’re going to go through, you’re going to be ok. You really, really are. And that will largely be down to the people who come into your life, it will be down to your determination to never give up, it will be down to your willingness to accept help, it will be down to your realisation that there is always, always something to be thankful for. When you learn, accept and remember this, I promise you more than anything that you’re going to be just fine. 

And now as I sign off, I can’t help but wonder if this letter has really been for you or something I actually need to remind my 40-year-old self. Because no matter how good she might be at giving out the advice, she definitely still needs reminding from time to time to take it.

Me xx

Taking off the mask

This was possibly the hardest blog for me to write so far. Because this one is about me. I don’t know how much of this people will already know. I don’t know who will be surprised by it. But I’ve always pledged to be honest. And it was during Mental Health Awareness Week three years ago that life changed for me, so it feels right to tell this story now…

You’ll probably be surprised to learn that this is a blog about my mental health given the pictures from Disney World at the top of it. But there’s a reason for including those. Because it was during this holiday that everything came to a head. I vividly remember storming out of our hotel room on more than one occasion. I vividly remember slamming the door behind me and telling myself my marriage had three months before I gave up on it. Yes, that’s right. In the happiest place in the world, I was miserable. My family were miserable. There were arguments most days. Yes we glossed over them and were able to have a nice time, but they were still happening. And what was the cause of most of these arguments? That things were going wrong, it wasn’t the holiday it was meant to be due to the weather, over tiredness and a lot of external pressure. And when it wasn’t perfect, I couldn’t cope. Because I’d put so much pressure on myself to deliver this perfect holiday that I felt the need to exacerbate every little thing that went wrong. I made it worse. No, Mr C wasn’t an innocent party, but I made things worse. I mean, just look at the photos, you can tell that things were strained, can’t you?

The simple answer to that question is no. Because despite the fact I was spiralling into a darker and darker place mentally, I wouldn’t talk about it. I became so adept at putting on a mask and pretending I was fine. I put the holiday photos on Facebook. I made sure that we were all smiley and cheery. To the outside world, Family Charlesworth had just had the perfect dream holiday in Disney World over Christmas. No-one knew what was really going on behind closed doors. And for a long time, I viewed this holiday as the start of my falling apart, despite the fact I had not been right for months prior to it. Yet Mr C later told me he viewed it as the start of my recovery because it made me acknowledge something wasn’t right. It took me a very long time to be able to look back on that holiday and not view it badly. I can do that now. I can look back at the photos and smile. I can look back at the 100-page photobook Mr C painstakingly put together for us and talk to my daughter about the memories that make us happy and laugh. Because it was a good holiday. I was just so blinded and in such a dark place that at the time I couldn’t see it. I focused on the negatives. When people would ask me about it, I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for it. I would respond with “it was fine thanks”, “we had a nice time” or some other inane response but despite this, I still didn’t want to front up to how I was really feeling.

It’s why it took me a further six weeks after we returned before I made the decision to seek help. Not because I was afraid to, but because I had just accepted that feeling this way was normal. I just felt that talking to someone about what I was feeling (the constant exhaustion, the flying off the handle at any given moment, the inability to make a decision) was one more thing to add to the to do list. I didn’t have the energy. I’d have to deal with it then. Far easier to lead a miserable, exhausted life, than face what was going on. But after one argument too many, after getting just that one step closer to walking out, I gave in. I accepted I needed to talk to someone. I knew I didn’t want to end my marriage, it was just being a wife was just one more thing that I didn’t need to be doing. My marriage was always the first thing to suffer because everything else was prioritised on top of it. I just didn’t have the energy to put the effort in to that as well. I took it for granted that it would always be there.

And so, without telling Mr C I was going to do it, I picked up the phone and made a call to our Employee Helpline. I felt scared. Because I knew this was bad. I knew as they asked the questions and I answered truthfully that they weren’t going to put the phone down having told me to go away and that I was fine. I wasn’t. I knew that. But what I couldn’t get my head around was why, who needs counselling and help so that they can cope with everyday life? You see I’d had counselling three times previously but in my head, each time was for a valid reason. The first because I’d buried a lot since my childhood, my parents’ divorce and Mr C’s diagnosis and treatment for cancer. The second because I was going through a tough time at work and was struggling with a two-year-old, I never felt good enough. The third because I’d buried a lot of feelings after we experienced a missed miscarriage. Reasons. All valid. To ask for help because life simply felt too hard felt ludicrous to me.

But to talk to me at the start of 2018 when I was at my lowest, you would not have known just how bad it was and how much I really did need help. I didn’t want to tell people in case they perceived me as weak. Two people knew at work, and I was so lucky with the support they gave me, but I didn’t want them telling anyone else. I didn’t tell many family members. I told barely any friends. I look back now, and it makes me feel sad for Mr C. Because I don’t know if he ever spoke to anyone about what was happening. It must have been so hard for him to be living in that situation. It’s one of those things I always thought we’d get around to talking about, but we ran out of time. I hope he did talk to someone. I hope he felt supported. Because I can only begin to imagine how hard it was for him to watch his wife fall apart in front of his eyes for a number of months.

And then as I was coming to the end of my counselling, the Friday of Mental Health Awareness Week, 18 May 2018, my father in law said something to me which would change everything. He was paying me a compliment. He was giving me a little boost. But what he didn’t realise was that he was about to change the way I approached my life. In saying what he did, he unlocked something in me. It’s why I remember the date. What did he say? “You’ve got broad shoulders; you’ll just take it all on the chin. It’s what you always do.” He was right. To onlookers this is what I did because this was the facade I’d created. Emma Charlesworth could take on anything and it was all water off a duck’s back. She was strong. Yet as I left his house a little while later and sat outside my daughter’s school, I reflected on what he said. This really was the perception of me. And the only person who was going to change that and admit I couldn’t take it all on the chin was me. I’ll always be grateful to him for saying it, without it, I don’t know when, or if, I’d have started being more open. So, as I sat outside my daughter’s school, I wrote social media posts. I still wasn’t brave enough to tell people face to face, so social media felt like a way to dip my toe in the water. I shared that I’d been having counselling. I shared that I’d been living with depression and anxiety. I was staggered after these posts went live. No-one judged me. No-one called me weak. The support overwhelmed me. It really was ok that I was admitting that I wasn’t ok.

Over the following 18 months, I started sharing and to open up more. I became adamant that our daughter would not grow up thinking it was weak to ask for help. I would set a good example for her. I would make sure she always felt comfortable to talk about her feelings. But most of all, I didn’t want to wear a mask and put on a front anymore. I just wanted to be me. To be accepted for who I was, warts and all. In February 2020, just a month before he fell ill, Mr C recorded a video of me sharing my story for the internal news platform at work. He was so proud of me for doing it. Because for just over 20 years, this is what he’d wanted me to do. To just be me, to not pretend to be someone I wasn’t. To simply be Emma. Someone who struggles with life at times, someone who on occasion needs help to deal with life. Someone who isn’t perfect but is happy with herself regardless of this, because no-one is. But no matter what, she’s someone who refuses to give up.

He’d be proud that I can sit here now and reflect on all of this. He’d be proud that over the last few weeks I’m noticing things which could be little triggers indicating that I need to be a bit kinder to myself. I’ve started to wonder whether my inclination to open the laptop and work once my daughter has gone to bed really is because the work needs doing then or because it’s a distraction technique to stop me feeling lonely and being alone with my thoughts. When people ask me how I am, I’ve realised I tend to respond with what I’m doing to help my daughter and how she is. Again, I’m distracting because to think about how I am is just too hard. I don’t honestly know how I am. It’s raw. It has the potential to unlock something within me which I’m not ready to face yet. I can feel the emotion rising during conversations where I feel frustrated or disappointed, I’m not able to keep it under wraps. The Emma tone of old creeps in. Being hugged by a couple of people in the last few weeks (yes, I know rules have been broken here) made me feel fragile. I wasn’t ready for physical contact. The thought of the return to a post lockdown world makes me feel vulnerable. I’m still grieving, I’m still trying to process being widowed at 39, I’m still trying to adjust. I will be for a very long time. I want to hide away from people for a lot longer. And while I have had bereavement counselling to help me work through the immediate trauma of what we went through, I know at some point I’ll seek more. But I know that by recognising these triggers and understanding myself, it means I won’t hit rock bottom before I do this. I won’t ever allow myself to hit rock bottom again. Because the difference between now and 2018 is that I’m not scared to ask for help. I won’t be scared to tell people.

Why? Because of what I’ve learnt over the last four years, because I can now accept that asking for help doesn’t mean you’re weak. I ended a previous blog with a quote from Winnie the Pooh and this one is no different. Because one of the best quotes of all when it comes to mental health comes from Piglet. “It’s okay to feel not very okay at all. It can be quite normal, in fact.” Never a truer word spoken.