Tag: Grief

Happily ever after?

Various images of Emma Charlesworth as well as Kelsey Parker and Bridget Jones

I vividly remember sitting in my back garden with some friends not long after my husband had died and making the proclamation that I would never be in another relationship. That I would never even look for someone new because I didn’t want to go through the pain I was going through again. That I’d be far better off shutting myself off to any future hurt or pain than risk it. I even went so far as to make a couple of bets with another friend of mine. 1) That I would never get remarried. 2) That I would never be married to a 50-year-old. The latter because it had been a running joke for many years that when my late husband turned 50, I was going to trade him in for a younger model because to be married to a 50-year-old would make me old and I didn’t want that (there was almost a seven-year age gap between us.)

But while these bets were made at a very different stage of my grief to where I am now, the more time that has passed, the more I’m even more adamant that I’m going to be taking home the winnings from them. Because I genuinely can’t see me getting remarried. This isn’t a woe is me statement, this isn’t me feeling sorry for myself or shutting myself down to the concept, it’s because as things stand right now, I simply don’t ever want to. It’s a conscious choice. I don’t even think I want a relationship in the traditional sense. Don’t get me wrong, I have no idea what the future holds and how my opinion might change, after all, I don’t tend to plan for the future anymore. I can only go on how I feel at a particular point in time. And how I have felt since becoming a widow.

Besides. The perfect man who would fit my endless list of requirements doesn’t exist. Well, I mean he does, but Jason Donovan is actually already married to a very lovely woman. Or he’s fictional, yes, I did fall a little bit in love with Adam Brody when I binged watched Nobody Wants This. But while others would say I’m using levity to mask how I’m truly feeling, I am in a way, I just don’t even know what I’d call what it is that would be perfect for me. Is it companionship? Is it a relationship? Is it a friend with benefits? Is it a situation-ship? Is it a different term that I doubt my mum or daughter would appreciate me saying? Is it none of these? This is the problem. Aside from a few months in 2003, the last time before being widowed that I was not in a serious relationship was 1999. I was 18 years old and not really aware of any of these things. I’m sure they’ve just developed over time as more and more people try to grasp, and move away from the traditional marriage, 2.4 children and dog!

I also hadn’t envisaged when my late husband and I became a couple in 1999 and when I got married at the age of 24, that by the time I was 40, my relationship status and sex life (or lack thereof) would be a topic for discussion. But it has been. I’ve been asked if I miss it. I’ve been asked why I’m not putting myself out there again. I’ve been told that my late husband would want me to be happy and not on my own. I’ve been asked if I’m letting my daughter run my life. Whether I’m sacrificing my own happiness, wants and needs to put her first. I’ve been asked if it’s simply because I’m just too scared of letting someone in. And these questions aren’t always just from close family or friends. It always takes me back a bit what people think it’s acceptable to ask. And while I have tasked my eldest godson with finding me a handsome millionaire when he’s at work, the reality is that even a handsome millionaire might struggle to convince me it’s a good idea to let someone in right now. Life has changed me. Nearly five years since being widowed, I’ve got into a nice routine with life in general. Life is possibly busier than it was pre-pandemic, I have to juggle a lot more with my daughter and her ambitions, dance lessons etc… and fitting someone into that world just feels like it would be another thing to manage. I like who am I now, who I’ve become since having to navigate and go through all this trauma. Is finding someone and letting them become a part of my world actually worth it?

But more than that. My daughter is my world, and I don’t want someone who thinks they can come in, have a ready-made family and be a father to her. She has a father and while he may no longer be physically on this planet, he is and always will be, her father. She doesn’t need a replacement. I also like the autonomy I have in my life right now. I decide what we do. Where my money goes (although granted, the theatre shows that my daughter often hints at take a chunk of that!) I decide where we go on holiday. I choose how to decorate our house. I don’t have to answer to or be accountable to anyone. I have, to a certain extent, become incredibly selfish over the past five years. My daughter is obviously my priority and always will be, but the autonomy that my life gives me works for me. I enjoy it.

I wonder if there’ll be people reading this thinking I’m lying and putting on a front. People thinking I’m just stuck in my grief. People thinking I no longer miss my husband and appear to be living my best life. People querying whether I ever loved him if I’m saying I enjoy the autonomy I now have. People thinking “good for her.” Because this is also something that I have become painfully aware of over the last five years. People in my situation are judged. We can’t do right for doing wrong. We meet someone in what is perceived to be too short a timeframe from the death of a partner and we’re moving on “too quickly.” We don’t meet someone new and we’re “stuck in grief.” We’re in a relationship with someone who is a different gender to the partner who died and “we’re going through a phase.” I could go on, but you get the picture. The judgement and opinions from other people are constant. And quite frankly, it’s beyond annoying. Until you have lived an hour, day, week, month or year in the life that we now lead, you really, really can’t comment or judge. No matter how well meaning you are.

I realise I sound like I’m standing very high on a soapbox, but I was reminded of these viewpoints by something I witnessed in the public eye recently. Kelsey Parker, the widow of The Wanted star Tom Parker, announced her pregnancy with her new partner. I met Kelsey as part of her documentary alongside some other Widowed and Young members and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that she loved Tom and always will. That she was grieving. That she was in immense pain. But despite this, she is now moving forwards with her life as so many people who are widowed young do. I’m so incredibly pleased for her, she absolutely deserves happiness. Yet. The vitriol that was directed her way on social media was nothing short of despicable. Whatever happened to being kind? These comments made by people in their armchairs and hiding behind social media are despicable. Anyone who sends hurtful messages or comments via social media is abhorrent in my opinion. There is simply no need for it. And it made me think back to when Simon Thomas, the Sky Sports presenter announced he was getting re-married after the tragic death of his wife and subsequently having more children. The timeframes between him and Kelsey are similar, yet while I might be wrong, I don’t recollect the same types of comments being directed at him. Maybe I wasn’t as acutely aware of widowhood at the time, but it does make me wonder. Are women who are widowed perceived differently to men? Are they “meant” to behave differently? Is the expectation that women should simply wear black and never leave their house again? Be devoid of love and happiness forever more?

The timing of all these comments being directed to Kelsey feels even more ironic and pertinent given the release of the latest Bridget Jones film, Mad About The Boy. I’m not going to post any spoilers, but what you can glean from the trailers is that Bridget has been widowed, is the mother to two small children and hasn’t been in a relationship or had sex in just over four years. Yet in comparison to the comments directed to Kelsey, how many people will be sitting in cinemas, willing Bridget to meet someone and be happy? It’s not one rule for fictional characters and one rule for real people. Everyone in life deserves the chance to experience happiness.

And this brings me onto my next soapbox point. The fictional depiction of young widows or widowers and their need to be loved to be happy. How many of you have sat and watched a Christmas movie where the lead character has lost their partner and by the end of the movie they’re fulfilled because they’re living happily ever after with a new partner? I’m not by any stretch of the imagination saying this doesn’t happen and isn’t what some people in real life do, but I’m yet to find a movie where the lead character accepts where they’re at, lives their life to their fullest and is a success without meeting someone new (if anyone reading this is aware of a movie that does this, please do let me know). 

It’s why I also bristle at the term Chapter 2 to describe a new relationship post widowhood. I believe it lessens who we are as individuals. Again, maybe I look at things too pragmatically, but my life has been made up of many, many chapters. I don’t view my late husband as my Chapter 1. He is a part of my story, but he wasn’t the first part of it. A new chapter began the day he was admitted to ICU. Another one began the day he died. I sometimes actually feel I’m currently living in Chapter 752 of my life or that the screenwriters in charge of my life are seeing just how much they can push it in season five before it becomes laughable. But that’s ok. It’s what life is. Other people don’t think like I do and are a fan of the term Chapter 2. That’s their prerogative, I’d hate it if everyone agreed with me, it’s not what life is about. We all have to go about life in a way that works for us and with our own views. It’s actually what makes the world go round.

While I appreciate this might be the most opinionated blog I’ve posted in a while, it’s not the first time I’ve written about this topic. I’m not completely devoid of emotion and needs. The first time was about my very short-lived experience on a dating app. The last time was in 2023 when I also discussed the topic of widow’s fire. Yet I’m also selfishly glad that I’ve been able to write this piece. For the first time in a long time, it was nice to be able to sit and write. My headspace over the last few months hasn’t been great, I’ve had so very much to process. I’ve found it difficult to not really be able to talk about it, to have to navigate and work through it by myself. I’ve needed to do this for me but now I can think straight again. I’ve given myself the time and space I’ve needed. Despite capitulating at the end of October last year, I’m getting there. I’m proud of me. The irony is that I’m probably at a point in my life where I’m now the truest and strongest version of me I’ve ever been. I’d no doubt be quite a catch for that handsome millionaire or perfect man should he appear. I just don’t know if I want to be caught. Yet.

And what is that perfect man? Above all else someone I can trust. Trust was never something I had to worry about with my late husband, it was a part of our relationship from the start. It just continued to build over the next two decades. But I’ve seen first-hand the damage and hurt that lies can cause. Learning that even close friends of mine of many years are capable of lying to me has made me sceptical as to whether I could trust someone new. I’d need to scrutinise that millionaire to the nth degree. He’d probably give up before he’d even started!

And then there’s that endless list of requirements too. Someone who wouldn’t encroach on my life as is. Who is happy not having a label for his role in my life. Who accepts I don’t have all the time in the world for him. Who appreciates all I’m juggling and gives me the space to do that and live my life. Who realises I’m a mother first, yet doesn’t have small children (been there, done that!) Who realises just how much my late husband is still a part of my life, always will be and has no issue with me talking about him. Who realises that there may well be a certain amount of judgement directed at him and me. Who could be a sounding board for me at the end of bad day (or a good day) for that matter. Who accepts that he’ll always be second best to a certain Mr Donovan.  Who makes me smile and laugh. Who makes me feel safe. Who makes me feel cared for and looked after yet doesn’t think I need “fixing.” Who I could talk with about films and TV shows. Who makes this 40 something year old not feel as old and knackered, but almost desirable. Someone who despite all the overthinking I do, the baggage I have and the challenges I face, doesn’t want to change me or my life and accepts me for me. In essence, he’d be the Mr Darcy to this Bridget Jones. Someone who could look at me and say “I like you, very much. Just as you are.”

If this sounds like you, then watch this space. Maybe one day, I’ll open that application process. It’ll be rigorous though; I can assure you of that. The amazing squad of girls I have around me will see to that. What is it the Spice Girls said?

“If you wannabe be my lover, you gotta get with my friends.”

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. 

Hope is everything

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

Two years ago, to mark Children’s Grief Awareness Week, I wrote a blog because the phrase “children are resilient” had been playing heavily on my mind. I felt it was clouding our view of how children who have been bereaved are treated. One of the points I raised that seemed to resonate the most with people was this: Needing help doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, that she’s mad, that she can’t cope or that she’s weird. It just means she’s human and vulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quite simply. Hope is everything.

Four and a half years a widow

Picture of Emma Charlesworth between 2020 and 2024

It’s been a while since I wrote a blog on the “half anniversary.” I think the last time I did this was in 2021 after a pretty tumultuous few months when I was reflecting on 18 months as a widow. But there’s something about this one that’s making me reflect as well. It’s the last one I have before the anniversary (or Dad’s Death Day as my daughter prefers) that already feels like it’s looming over me. Five years. The fact we are rapidly hurtling towards this one is something I am struggling to get my head around. And probably will be for the next six months. It just doesn’t feel real that in 2025 I’ll have been a widow for five years.

I first started thinking about it on Father’s Day this year. The realisation hit me a few days beforehand that my daughter was about to do her fifth Father’s Day without her father. There is something about the number five that just feels huge. I think in part it’s because my daughter was 10-years-old when he died. Five is exactly half of that. It scares me how quickly time is going and how much she is achieving without him. Fast forward a few weeks and we then had our fifth birthday without him. Which also happened be his 50th birthday. It hit me a lot harder than I anticipated it would, and I think this is what I’m still coming to terms with. How much of a part of my life grief is. How much of a part of my life it always will be.

I know that on the surface people don’t see this in the same way about me as they would have done in the early days. And that’s completely right, because I’m not as physically broken by it as I was in 2020. What staggers me is how much grief changed me not just mentally by physically too. I look back at pictures now and see how ill I looked. I’ve questioned my family on this, I’ve asked them why no-one told me that I looked ill or broken, and the response is always the same. “You didn’t need to know.” They are of course right; I didn’t need to know this because I would have just stressed about it and probably made myself more ill. But when I look back now, it makes me really emotional. Because I do know now. And I can see it.

Yet a couple of weeks ago when I was out, I had a comment that really took me aback. I was speaking with someone I’d never met before and the subject of what had happened came up. “Well, you look quite happy about it” was the response. I stood there, slightly unsure of what to say. What am I meant to do? Sit in a corner, wear black, have a veil over my face and weep until the end of my days? Or be like Miss Havisham and wear my wedding dress (granted, I probably wouldn’t fit in it) until the end of my days? I flustered a little bit and made a comment about how it was nearly five years, and I was learning to live with it, but I know I it was just waffle.

Because this is the thing, isn’t it? There is such a lack of understanding or knowledge about grief. I think this is the main thing I’ve learnt in the last four and a half years. To the majority of people I’m living my life, am happy and am moving on. But these people don’t see me behind closed doors. They don’t see me crying in a theatre, cinema or while watching TV because the music or storyline has triggered me. They don’t see the anger I feel at all the coverage the release of Boris Johnson’s new book has been getting. They don’t see me bristle at the term covid fatigue. They don’t see me exhausted at having to do absolutely everything. They don’t see me worrying that my late husband is going to be forgotten. The inane fear I have that people are over it and wish I’d stop banging on about it. They don’t see the constant juggle of being a solo parent, a full-time employee, perimenopausal, a friend, a family member and not to mention Emma. Me as an individual. Someone trying to forge a life for herself because she’s well aware that her daughter is just getting older, gaining more independence and building her own life.

I’m having to retrain my brain to adjust to this. I’m having to get used to time on my own. This should have been the time of life when my late husband and I had a bit more freedom, were able to take advantage of this and enjoy being a couple. I’ve spent a lot of time writing this year, and now I’ve finished that project, I’ve been at a bit of a loss as to what I’m meant to do with my time. Again. People don’t see me wandering round my house wondering how to fill time when my daughter is with friends or at dancing. They don’t see me coming up with oodles of jobs that probably don’t need doing because it still feels weird to me to be at home on my own without him. Even now. There are times when I still struggle with the fact he isn’t here, and I have to do it all. That’s the life of a widow though. The side swipes are still very much a part of my everyday life.

It’s this that I’ve found most interesting since he died. The expectation anyone in my situation puts on themselves. “It’s been X amount of years, I should feel different by now.” Not wanting to scare people who are newly widowed that the grief doesn’t ever go. When I talk with fellow members of Widowed and Young, this is a topic of conversation that crops up time and time again. People apologising because they’re further along and don’t want to cause worry to newer members that they’re still sad or struggling. Newer members feeling guilty because they’ve had a positive few weeks and feel they should be sadder. The guilt when you’re a few years in and have a bad day because you should be better by now. The crushing pain that can appear when you least expect it to. The complexity of emotions is vast. Navigating them has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Trying to understand my emotions and my needs is at times beyond me. I messaged my sister a few months back and told her I was having an existential crisis. “Why now?” was her blunt response.

Because this is the thing. There is a lot in my life that feels tougher to deal with now and causes me to have a crisis more than it once would have done. Because I have to deal with it on my own. I recently had a leak in my house that resulted in the floorboards needing to be lifted up. I asked our plumber if he could stay for a cup of tea and help me rationalise it because it felt overwhelming to me to have to work it out by myself. It was the fourth leak I’d had in a year and each one had elicited a different response from me. Because each one came when my mental state and resilience were different.

And while it might sound daft. These leaks feel like a perfect metaphor for grief. The first one sent me into a bit of a spiral as I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go away with the girls the following day and needed a friend to come to my rescue. The second one I just dealt with, very matter of fact and didn’t even cry. The third one was the straw that broke the camel’s back after a full-on couple of weeks and caused me to capitulate. And the most recent one saw me having to rationalise it all out by talking to someone. Every single one of those reactions have been how I’ve dealt with my grief since becoming a widow. How I’ve dealt with the fact I’m a solo parent and no longer part of a couple anymore. It’s relentless. It’s exhausting.

Yet I’d be lying if I said that the people who only see the superficial side of me are entirely wrong. I cannot sit here and say I have a bad life. To do that would be disingenuous. I am moving forward. I am able to enjoy aspects of my life again. I have been able to have some amazing adventures. I know when I write my end of year blog this year it’s going to be one that I’m incredibly proud of. I’ve conquered a lot this year both emotionally and physically. I’ve achieved objectives that I set for myself at the start of 2024. So far, neither my daughter or I have needed therapy this year. The first year since 2019 when neither of us have been in therapy. Life feels settled. But this is equally hard. Because I don’t trust it. I find it very hard to relax into it. There is always this nagging little voice at the back of my mind telling me not to get to used to it. That something bad will come my way very soon.

I know as I head towards Christmas, my daughter’s birthday and the upcoming anniversary, life might not feel as settled. There’s going to be a lot of reminders. It’s not going to be easy. But I’m going to try to focus on a quote I heard at the Widowed and Young AGM last month to get me through. Because it feels like the perfect summation of my life as a widow.

“It never gets easy. It just gets less hard.”

Finding your WAY

Various photos from the Widowed and Young AGM 2024

It’s been a few months since I last wrote a blog. Life has been busy lately, we’ve had a fab summer and while I have been busy writing, it’s been for something completely different to my blog. And I always said I’d only write when I had something to say, I never had the intention of blogging just for the sake of it.

But a lot has been whirring in my mind since last weekend. You see, last weekend was the 2024 Widowed and Young AGM. This was the third AGM I have attended and once again, I trekked across the country to be there, this time to Crewe. It’s always a bit daunting getting in the car and driving quite a way by yourself, Mr C was always the one out of the two of us who did most of the driving, but there is always something reassuring about knowing you’re driving to spend the weekend with people who “get it.”

Yet, this was the first AGM where I headed off feeling slightly nervous about it. You see, I knew that Emma, my comfort blanket at these events wasn’t going to be able to make it until late on the Friday evening. So, I was going to have to go to the Volunteer’s Meeting and dinner without her. It might sound odd, I’ve been volunteering and an Ambassador for WAY for three and a half years now, have met numerous other volunteers and members of WAY at various events, but that thought of walking into a room by myself still feels me with a little bit of dread. I’m still not really used to being on my own.

Traffic delays meant I was slightly late to the Volunteer’s Meeting. Fortunately, Emma was on hand for me to ring to ask her to let them know! But being late also meant that I didn’t have a chance to get nervous and scared about walking in on my own, the meeting had already started when I arrived and so I just had to thrown myself into it and the initial icebreaker challenge. Within moments, I was wondering why I’d been feeling nervous. There were familiar faces for me to talk to and also new faces who I quickly got to know. It’s one of the weirdest situations really, we’re only in that room together because of one commonality, we have all experienced the loss of a partner before our 51st birthday yet somehow that almost feels secondary once you start talking to others. My team won one of the other challenges and we were presented with a bag of Heroes, an apt prize if I ever saw one! I then joined other members for a history tour of Crewe Hall Hotel and Spa, the hotel we were staying in, a really beautiful and fascinating place and then I trundled back to my room to get ready for dinner.

Once again, the nerves kicked in. Dinner was at 8pm and while there were messages on the Facebook page about meeting for a drink earlier, I started feeling apprehensive again. What if I went down and wouldn’t have anyone to talk to? What if people I didn’t know started to talk to me about my widowhood experience, did I really want to talk about it? What if, what if, what if…? The question that we really shouldn’t ask ourselves, but we always do. Worst case scenario planning, and I am very, very good at it! I snuck into dinner just before 8pm, not revealing to anyone the feelings I was having and instantly started talking to people. Again, some I’d met before but others I hadn’t. Conversation was easy and free flowing. If I’m honest, I knew it would be and I was berating myself in my head for the fears I’d been having leading up to it.

Emma had messaged to tell me the time she would be arriving and despite feeling tired, I knew I needed to wait up to see her. I suspected both of us would need the reassuring hug from each other, her because of the long drive and to help quell a number of anxieties she was feeling, me because I was also experiencing anxieties and just wanted a hug from someone who knows me well. I think we both clung on a little bit too tight when she did arrive. But that’s the power of connection through tragedy, sometimes you don’t even need to say how you’re feeling for someone else to just instinctively know.

The following morning was the AGM itself. A chance for us to learn more about the work of the charity over the previous year and plans going forward. But it always kicks off with an icebreaker challenge, there was a lot at stake with this one, I’d been on the winning table in 2023 and felt I had a title to protect! This year we needed to build the tallest swan, the swan being synonymous with WAY. There were other people on our table who had been on the same table and therefore victorious last year, but there were also some people who were new faces. Straight away we all got to work and after some potentially contentious entries, I’m delighted to report that my table was once again victorious. The winning sashes were instantly put on. The prosecco opened a short while later (it was early after all). The smiles and the laughter evident for all to see.

That continued throughout the day. Yes. There were some challenging moments. Hearing from a speaker who is also a member of WAY and hearing her story can’t help but make you reflect on your own experience and how you’ve come to be in a room full of people who have faced similar heartbreak. But as we all went off to the breakout sessions, me experiencing my first Soundbath and then candle making, I couldn’t help but think about just how important weekends and occasions like this have become to me.

Those thoughts continued as we headed to the spa for a swim and time in the sauna and steam room. Emma and I chatting and putting the world to rights. Catching up with others and making plans for the evening dinner dance. It was just so ridiculously easy and comfortable. As we headed to dinner, posh frock on (any excuse to wear a posh frock!) I knew I’d be in for a fab evening. I was proven right. I was once again victorious in a game of Heads and Tails and another box of Heroes came my way. I introduced someone I had met the day before and someone I had met last year to Tequila Rose, I’m nothing if not generous. We tried to see how many of us we could squeeze into a Photo Booth to take a photo of the victorious winning icebreaker challenge table (the answer is eight people). Some of us crying with laughter at the most ridiculous and surreal conversations we were having. Some of us crying because the emotion had got a bit much being relatively new to WAY and widowhood. I instinctively went over and gave a hug to someone because I could just see that they needed it and if I’ve learnt anything, it’s just how powerful a hug can be at the right time. Some of us catching up and chatting, I spent a lot of time talking to someone I had met last year, we’ve continued to message over the past year but despite the fact we’ve now only seen each other twice in a year, it felt so normal and like old friends talking. At one point I and another volunteer were asked how long we’d known each other, I looked at my watch, did the maths and responded “about 29 hours” to be promptly told that it was as though we’d known each other a lot longer than that. I think a lot of that came down to the very warped sense of humour we both have!

And I noticed that while I was having these conversations, I wasn’t as solely reliant on Emma as I had been in previous years. Yes, I was so relieved to have my comfort blanket back and to know she was there, but we both were having conversations with others and finding our way. Together but also on our own. As I’ve had to do with the rest of my life since becoming eligible to join WAY almost four and a half years ago. Emma runs courses and is passionate about talking about growing around your grief, and I truly believe that this is what so many of us in the room have done or are in the process of doing. It’s different timing for everyone, no grief journey is the same, but we are all doing it. Anyone walking past that room and seeing the smiles, laughter and dancing wouldn’t have had a clue behind the heartbreaking reason that has brought us all together. They’d have just seen a group of people having a good evening. And after all the heartbreak and tears we’ve experienced, that can only be a good thing.

As we checked out of the hotel the next morning, I knew there was one more than I needed to do before I headed home. I needed to brave doing something else on my own. Finding my way to revisit a special place. Just me. Not with Emma or my WAY friends. Not my family. Just me. I was a short drive away from the castle that my nan spent five years living in while she was evacuated. The last time I visited it my family were all together. My grandad and my late husband were still alive. Alzheimer’s hadn’t taken hold of my nan. As I walked around taking photos and videos to show her when I next see her, I couldn’t help but think about how much my life has changed since that last visit. I sat on my own, had a coffee, did some writing and just spent time as me, as Emma.

It hit me that the same day four and half years ago was the day that Mr C experienced his first symptom of COVID-19. The tears fell and I found myself crying for a lot of the journey home. For what I’ve lost. The pain I’ve gone through. The hurt that has come into my life. But I also cried for the good in my life. The people who are only in it because of what I’ve gone through. Everything my daughter and I have been able to achieve in the face of such adversity. The hope we have for the future. The plans we have. It’s the most bittersweet of situations. I’d give everything I have for my late husband to still be here, but I know that’s impossible. And so, I just have to focus on what I do have.

Those of us who formed a close bond last weekend are now part of a WhatsApp group. It’s been quite active this week. Plans being made. Support being given. Conversations that one might say are classic examples of levity. I’ve had to find a new life and a new way since the pandemic turned my world upside down in 2020, but I just know that there is still a future for me, good times ahead and new friends to be made. I owe a lot of that to WAY. It’s one of the reasons my latest fundraising is raising money for the charity. It’s my way of both showcasing Mr C’s photography while also giving back to the charity that has done so much for me.

Because what WAY has shown me most of all is that it is possible to find your way in this new life I’ve found myself in and that you can go on. It’s why I intend to live my life to the full as the best way of honouring my late husband. As the quote on the candle I made last weekend from Elvis Presley says “What’s the good of reaching 90, if you waste 89?”  

The big 5-0

Various images of Stuart Charlesworth

So, there we have it Mr C. The big 5-0. This date has been looming over me for quite some time now. It’s nearly 25 years since I met your family for the first time at your dad’s 50th birthday celebrations in 1999. How on earth is it possible that it is now 50 years since you were born? We’ve also reached the day I’d always said would be the day I traded you in for a younger model because to be married to a 50-year-old would make me old.

Except. This is your first ‘Big Birthday’ in over 20 years that I won’t actually be celebrating it with you. I no longer have the option to trade you in for a younger model. You will forever be 45.

Today is another one of those dates that is a milestone. Just last month, I realised that we have now done five Fathers’ Days without you. Our daughter was only able to celebrate 10 with you and so we’ve now reached the halfway point. And it feels like this has happened in the blink of an eye. Today is now the fifth birthday of yours that we’re marking without you physically being here for it. Again, it feels like this has happened in the blink of an eye.

We went to Howletts Wild Animal Park on your birthday in 2020 and spent the day wandering looking at the animals, taking photos and smiling when thinking about you. We were the recipient of lovely, thoughtful gifts because people knew how hard it would be for us. But we survived it. As we did so much in 2020. Your birthday in 2021 was the first time I’d been properly drunk since you died. It was the day we held your Memorial Service and Celebration of Life. There were so many people there who loved you. You’d have been overwhelmed at it all. And would no doubt have rolled your eyes at all the fuss. What I hadn’t seen coming at your birthday in 2021 was that it would cause me to fall apart and to take me right back to feeling like I’d just lost you. The Memorial Service, the hugging, the emotions, and the people in the room was something I didn’t experience in 2020, it made it real that you’d gone. It stung. It hurt. I couldn’t keep going anymore. I needed to grieve.

But somehow, I survived this and did keep going. With some more falling apart and a near nervous breakdown on the way. We made it to your 48th birthday in 2022. We didn’t specifically have anything planned for this day. I was having to go with the flow a bit more in life and so we had a relaxed day, we went to see your entry in the Book of Remembrance at the crematorium and we had a drink at your Memorial Bench at Hearts Delight. The difference from the previous year was beyond notable. Nothing planned. No falling apart. Just being and remembering.

Last year, for the first time since 2019 I worked. Admittedly only from home, it would have been a step too far to go to the office, but I did work. Yet I struggled. Facebook memories cropped up of you entering the last year of your 30s and me winding you up about this. I knew I’d have been doing the same about you entering the last year of your 40s. I made it through the day at work and then wanted to take our daughter to your bench with me. But she didn’t want to go. She didn’t feel that she needed to. I don’t know why, but this made me angry. I’m simply so scared of people not wanting to mark this day anymore. Of you being forgotten. It’s been a fear of mine for years now. It’s inherent in me and I can’t see a day when I ever don’t feel this way. So, I went to the bench on my own. Sat there with a cocktail in a can, I’m still as classy as ever, and sobbed for a bit. I made a call to get someone to come and keep me company and give me a hug. I survived the day. But it was a struggle.

And ever since, I’ve been so acutely aware that today has been rapidly approaching. I’ve wondered what we would have been doing to celebrate. Clearly, I wouldn’t have traded you in on your actual birthday, I’m not completely heartless after all. Would you have had a large gathering with family and friends? Your 30th birthday weekend was a celebratory one, we had your birthday party on the Saturday night and then our engagement party on the Sunday. I’ve allowed myself to go back and watch the DVD of this day recently. I’ve watched you open cards and presents in bed and then the footage of your party. It’s crazy to think how many people who were at that party are no longer here. It seems inconceivable to think that you’re one of them. 10 years ago, we went to see Robbie Williams at The O2 because I’d not really made the association that this was your 40th birthday weekend when I booked the tickets! But we then had a gathering at The Tav on the Saturday evening. You went to the driving range during the day, and I lovingly decorated the pub with pictures of you through the years. The following day we took over an Indian restaurant, granted, some people were too hungover from the night before to make it, but it was a lovely afternoon. The first ‘Big Birthday’ that our daughter got to spend to with you. We couldn’t possibly have envisaged that it would go on to be the only one.

But as much as these two dates were celebrated, I wonder if this one would have been a little more muted. It’s a Wednesday and you’d have no doubt said there was no point taking the day off work for it. Would we have gone out for dinner? Gone to a show? Gone to the cinema? I suspect if we had booked something you’d have been quite affronted and wanted to change it, given the Euro 2024 England semi-final tonight. That would have been what you wanted to watch. But I genuinely have no idea as to what we’d have been doing. Four years can do a lot to a person, would you have changed? Would you actually have changed your opinion of birthdays and have wanted to make a bigger fuss than you did for your 30th and your 40th?

I try not to let myself think these thoughts too often. Because they still hurt. It’s painful to wonder what life would be like now had the pandemic not happened. It’s like when we lost the baby and would often wonder who they would have been. For such a long time they were the biggest what if in my life. But now, you’ve joined them. What if you hadn’t have fallen ill? Who would you be now? What job would you be doing? Would your photography have taken off? Would you still be singing? And if so, what band would you be in? Would you have become a grumpy old man? Would you still believe that life is for living and be doing it to the best of your ability? What if… what if… what if… The question that should never really be asked.

It’s been bittersweet watching our friends celebrate their 50th birthdays. Knowing that there’s more of them to come. That handsome millionaire that’s going to come and sweep me off my feet better have already celebrated his 50th (granted, this does put me at odds with the whole trading you in for a younger model stance). Because all these things are just reminders that I’ll never get to celebrate your 50th with you. Yes, I know that you strongly believed that when it was your time, it was your time, but it still feels like your time was cut short. I still believe you had so much more to give. But I console myself that your legacy is living on through us. We’ve now raised over £15,000 for charity in your memory and have plans to do more. Something good must come out of this nightmare and your loss, and this is one of the best ways I can think of to honour you. To help others.

We’ve done our very best to keep living over the last four years. To celebrate you by continuing to live and not letting your death be the thing that destroyed us. But it’s hard. It’s bittersweet. My life is tinged with an element of sadness at how much you’re missing out on. Although. I suspect you’d be slightly despairing of just how much time we’ve spent in theatres watching musicals. But you’d also be secretly fine with it. Knowing that every time we’re in a theatre, your daughter is studying the cast on stage (as she has done for a decade now) and researching the Performing Arts Colleges in the programmes. You told her that she could be anything she wanted to be, and she’s still very much intent on doing exactly what she wants to do. She’s her father’s daughter. Of course, she’s intent and stubborn. Doesn’t get any of that from me. Not at all.

But while it’s me that’s with her today and not you, you will still very much be a part of our day. We haven’t made any plans; life has been a bit too hectic lately and juggling it all has taken its toll. I gave in on Monday and admitted defeat. That I just needed to reset for a little bit. It’s just all been a bit hard and today hit me harder than I anticipated it would. But irrespective of what we end up doing today, I know one thing. 10th July will forever be the day that we celebrate your birthday.

So, here’s to you Mr C. 50 years since you first made your mark on the world. And I have a sneaky suspicion that you’ll be continuing to make a mark on this world for many years to come. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll be there

CharlieFest 2024 is done. It’s taken me a couple of days to really think about all that was achieved on Saturday 4 May.  I was quite shell shocked for about 48 hours, but here goes…

There was a reason I chose this date to hold CharlieFest this year. You see, it’s an incredibly pertinent date for me and nothing to do with the fact it’s Star Wars Day (although I have it on good authority that Star Wars is actually quite a good movie and one to watch). It’s because it marked 20 years since I started working at PwC, 15 years since finding out we were pregnant with our first child, 14 years since I met some very special people and 10 years since Sporting Sittingbourne, the Sunday League football team that my late husband co-managed, played their last competitive game. If ever there was a day to come together to celebrate what would have been his 50th birthday this year, it was this one.

I’d love to be able to sit and write about how confident I felt going into the day. How little I stressed I about it. But this would be a total and utter lie. At the end of February (yes, that’s right, with just over two months to go before the event) I sent messages on group chats advising that I’d have to look at numbers when I got back from my holiday in April, and I’d be making a decision on whether I’d need to cancel. I was concerned about numbers. I was concerned about the financial hit I might need to take. People told me I was overthinking, that while the date was so prevalent for me, others would only really wake up to it and think about it closer to the time. But these reassurances didn’t really alleviate any worries for me.

In mid-March I went for drinks with two people who were organising the football match for me. They’ve had the pleasure (or perhaps misfortune?) of knowing me for nearly 30 years now. I’m sure that’s why I was allowed to get away with the forthright message I sent them, they know what to expect. I said to them that night that I was just worried that people would think I was flogging a dead horse and should just not bother. Again. They reassured me that no-one was thinking that. That I just needed to be patient and wait.

This would probably have been a lot for easier for me had I not been out of the country for two and a half weeks in the run up to it. When my daughter and I got back from holiday, we literally had three weeks to go until CharlieFest took place. I think I underestimated just how much emotion was going to come our way between the end of March and now. We did have an unexpected bereavement in the family, but I still should have envisaged that there were going to be a lot of poignant moments in the run up to Saturday’s event. As I mentioned, we were out of the country, and this was the trip my late husband and I had always planned to do for my 40th. A trip down the West Coast of the USA. We were away for my birthday which was the anniversary of him being admitted to ITU. The trip did us the power of good, but it was poignant, nonetheless. We had the fourth anniversary of his death which saw us attending a funeral in the church where our wedding, our daughter’s baptism and his Memorial Service all took place. It was painful. The following day I had some unexpected stresses and additional pain. Two weeks before hosting an event, and I was emotionally exhausted and drained. I was beginning to doubt whether I could even do it.

You see organising it has felt a bit like a full-time job. Except I also have a full-time job. I’m a mother. I have my own life to lead as well. It’s been full on. But I was sensible. I gave myself permission to take some time off on the odd occasion. I went for dinner and drinks with a friend. I spent quality time with my oldest friends who’ve known me since I was 11-years-old (although they did tell me the Escape Room we did wasn’t for me to escape from the real world and lock myself in). I let myself watch TV which is something I’ve only recently been able to do again. I relaxed, was able to shut out the rest of the world and be in my safe space. I started doing some breathing meditation. I decided to take a break from social media and doing my daily Be Thankful to give me one less thing to do.

Yet stress never really leaves me. When I sent my sister a message while on the train on Thursday morning with the two words “I’m done” she queried whether this was about anything in particular or just life. Keeping me grounded once again. Thursday was a hard day. I cried a lot. Too much going on in my brain. I sent a message to one of my closest friends asking if they had half an hour for a coffee or a hug on Friday because I needed a friend.

But. The ticket sales for CharlieFest continued to go up. The weather forecast was looking better. The supportive messages were coming in. By Friday, it felt like I was a bit more in control. The last-minute random thoughts and ideas I was having seemed to be making sense. I spent Friday night laminating. I love a laminator, it can’t be denied. My sister painted my nails in honour of CharlieFest and all things he liked, a camera, a microphone, a yellow heart, a fez and a football. We had an early night.

And then the big day came. CharlieFest was upon us. We started setting up at 9am. Me, my mum, my stepdad and my sister. The supportive messages were coming in. My notifications were pinging. I read a couple from friends who weren’t able to make it. “Have the most wonderful day. You are quite simply amazing, and Charlie would be so blinking proud of you. I’m so, so sorry we can’t be with you today. The biggest compliment I can give you is that I never met Mr Stuart Charlesworth, but I honestly feel like I knew him so well… because you have kept him alive in so many ways for so many people” and “Hope everything goes to plan today. I know it will be an emotional day but make sure to take time to stand still, take it all in and know Charlie would be so proud of what you have done considering he knew you couldn’t even make a bacon sandwich.” I knew I wasn’t done any more. But I also knew I couldn’t read any more messages because the emotions would build up. So, I stopped. I let the notifications mount and just concentrated on making the day everything we all wanted it to be.

That it was. Everything we wanted it to be. And much, much more. The love in the room was so, so strong. The love on the pitch was so, so strong. There was a real sense of community. To look around and see children on the bouncy castle, people having their faces painted, dancing to the disco, smiles, laughter and hugs. It was simply perfect. There were family, friends, colleagues and people who had never met him but wanted to be there. It was powerful to be a part of.

And then we hit the live music. Starting with the local Rock Choir. As well as On Thin Ice and Phat Gandalf, both of which feature band members who used to be in bands with my late husband. The coming together of so many aspects of his life was so strong. Football. Music. Family. Friends. But the most incredible performance of the night was from our daughter. Who stood up and sung three songs that he used to sing. Two of which featured the vocals of her father. They duetted. In public for the first time ever. As she sang Drive by Incubus, a video featuring photos and videos of them both played behind her. I don’t believe there was a dry eye in the house. As I looked round I could see the tears, the hugs and the emotion. It was palpable. Her fourth and final song of the night was also a nod to the date. The Glee version of Don’t Stop Believin’, the song that always reminds me of her. Because my late husband and I were watching the pilot of Glee when I had my first contraction with her. 15 years since finding out I was expecting her, she sang the song that reminds me of going into labour. Music is kryptonite. Simple as that.

As I looked round the room, I was simply so proud of all that had been achieved. You know, sometimes I amaze even myself. I didn’t do it alone. Not at all. But it was my idea. To see it play out in reality made me feel so humbled. To watch my late husband’s father speak to, and hold the hands of, the ITU nurse who was with Mr C on the day he died was a hell of a moment. We’re back to that word again. Community.

People told me on Saturday that I don’t need to do this again. That I’ve done what I need to do. That I need to live my life now. It’s all said with the very best of intention and love, I do know that. But I wonder if people would say this if I was a marathon runner, if running was my hobby and then I chose to donate money raised to a charity. Because the simple fact is I am living my life. In so many ways. But doing what I do is such a major part of my life. I’m currently having life coaching with a fabulous person to help me make sense of all parts of my life, and she asked me a question nobody else ever has. “Why do you do it?” As I thought about the answer, the emotion and the tears hit me. Because I’d never thought about it and therefore said these words out loud. “Because something good has to come out of the horrific thing that happened to us. It can’t have been nothing. I just can’t have it be for nothing.”

That’s the reality. I don’t do this because I’m living in the past. I do this to turn the most horrific thing in the world into a positive. To be able to help others. To raise awareness of other important charities. But more than that. Being able to be in a room full of people enjoying themselves is something he would have loved. The amount of people who asked me if I was doing it again because they love the community I’ve created and aren’t sure they’d all get together in this way if it wasn’t for CharlieFest. The first words he sang with my daughter on Saturday were “Whatever tomorrow brings, I’ll be there” and in a way he was.

Stuart ‘Charlie’ Charlesworth has left a legacy of community. A legacy of hope. A legacy of love. There is nothing greater in this world. As a message I received yesterday said “He would have loved his legacy being one of people and things he loved coming together. Just amazing.”

* If you would like to make a donation which will go to the Intensive Care Unit via Medway Hospital Charity, please do so via this link.*

Till death do us part?

Images of Stuart Charlesworth and family

Four years ago today the words I said on my wedding day became a reality. My husband died. I became a widow.

But this phrase has been going round in my head a lot over the last few months. Yes, on 19 April 2020 death parted us physically, but when someone dies, are you ever really spiritually or mentally parted from them? Are they ever not a part of you? Do you ever reach a point where you no longer do things for them?

I almost feel more of a sense of a duty to my late husband as a widow than I did as a wife. I tried articulating this to a friend recently and it was hard to do. I don’t think until you go through this, you can actually understand it. But I’m going to do my best to explain it. When my late husband was alive, he was ultimately responsible for him. Whether he did things that made people smile or annoyed them. For making sure he was present in people’s lives. If he chose to shut himself away from the world that was on him. While I was his wife, I couldn’t do anything to change his behaviour or how people perceived him. It was entirely his responsibility.

Yet he can’t do this any longer. And if I don’t keep his memory alive and try to keep him a part of people’s lives then who does? One of his oldest friends said this Terry Pratchett quote at his Memorial Service “No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.” It’s what I mean about a sense of duty. I feel an inordinate responsibility to him to make sure he’s still thought about and is still in people’s minds. That he’s still causing ripples and isn’t finally dead. This isn’t a pressure that anyone has put on me, this is something that I inextricably feel. That I can’t escape, no matter how much time has passed. Although as time is passing, I’m finding it that little bit harder to do. I sometimes feel conflicted between my past, my present and my future. I think more about whether people would rather I stop banging on about him and talking about our story. Queen of Overthinking. That’s me.

But I do think about it. He crops up in conversations I have a lot of the time. It still feels perfectly natural to me. New people come into my life, and I talk about him with them. Recently, I put myself in check and asked if it was weird that I talk about him with them. These people never met him, is it strange for me to talk about someone they never knew with them? I’m always reassured that it isn’t and that he was such a huge part of my life that it would be weirder if I didn’t talk about him, but these thoughts didn’t cross my mind in the early days. I guess that’s what time does, it makes you more reflective and think about things differently. Equally, I find it weird when I’m around people who did know him, and they don’t talk about him. I recently went out for dinner with people who knew him really well and he wasn’t mentioned all night. It was one of the first things I thought about when I got home. I know it wasn’t done with any malice; it was just one of those things, it was how the conversation flowed but it still felt weird for me. Yet, this isn’t something I’d ever say to them. Because I don’t want to make others feel uncomfortable in my presence. I don’t want people changing who they are and doing or saying things that are unnatural. He wouldn’t want that either.

It’s just the way that life goes. The more time passes, the more his physical presence on this earth fades. It’s the same whenever anybody dies really. But it’s a part of death and grief that I hate. That causes me the most conflict. My life is moving forward, I’ve had brilliant opportunities come my way and I’ve met people who have become important to me. But none of these things would have happened if he was still alive. If I hadn’t gone through what I’ve gone through. It is the biggest juxtaposition of my life. That I still get to live and experience so many amazing things, while he doesn’t. I’m regularly torn between being grateful and being sad about it.

It’s one of the reasons that I do fundraising activities in his name. So that an impact can still be made because of him. But this can be a challenge at times. I’m no athlete, running a marathon is never going to be something I’ll do and nor would I want to do it, so I do what I do best. Organise events. Work with designers and printers to bring his photography to life in the form of calendars and greetings cards. We come back to that sense of duty. He’s not here to do anything with his photography and I feel it would be an utter waste for it to simply sit on a hard drive and not see the light of day. It takes a lot of effort and work to get all these things off the ground. And all the time I’m putting this effort in, this nagging voice at the back of mind queries what if no-one comes to the event? What if no-one buys the calendars or greetings cards? What if no-one really cares anymore? It’s been two years since I last did this, am I being ridiculous to do it again? As I say, I’m the Queen of Overthinking and I do know this, but the constant worry isn’t for me. It’s for him. It’s a fear of letting him down. It’s a fear of him being forgotten.

I feel this so strongly because of our daughter. She never spoke the words “till death us do part” but nonetheless, she has been parted from her father by death. And yet I try to make sure he still lives on for her too. I see it so often when I look at her, she has so many of his mannerisms or Charlie-isms if you prefer. I try to tell her stories about him as often as I can. I’m so, so scared of her not knowing things. Of something happening to me before I’ve had a chance to tell her as many stories about him as I can. We’re reaching a point now where I tell her something and she responds that she knows as I’ve already told her. She does this with a bit of an eye roll too if I’m being perfectly honest. Like I say. She reminds me so much of him. But this is all part of this sense of duty I feel to him. To make sure that his only child can remember him. That she’s able to talk about him. That he’s still able to be an integral part of her life. Again, this wasn’t something I needed to do when I was his wife because they were able to make memories together. He was able to do things with her himself. They were as thick as thieves.  

For all these reasons, this last year leading up to this anniversary (or Dad’s Death Day as my daughter calls it) has been one that has seen the worries and concerns I feel increase a lot more than in previous years. There is something about four years that just feels it’s now a bit “too long” since he died. The world seems to be putting the pandemic into the history books. Life for the majority of people has gone back to “normal” (I use this term loosely because who’s to say what is normal anyway). His loss isn’t front and centre any more. And neither should it be. Because that’s the way with loss and grief. We learn to grow around it. We learn to live with it. We learn that we have to move forward, or risk being sucked into a horrible abyss. But it’s just so, so hard. And I wouldn’t be doing myself any favours to pretend it’s not.

My daughter and I recently did the holiday that my late husband and I had planned to do for my 40th birthday. We just needed to reset this time of year a little bit. To stop the “this time four years ago” thoughts, to not focus on the looming anniversary. And it did just that. Both of us this week have been shocked that it was coming round so soon. That we haven’t been as aware of it as in previous years.

It’s proof that doing a trip at this time of year does us the power of good. We’ll probably always try to go away for a bit each year now. It was an amazing trip. No two ways about it. But there were tears. There were disagreements. I think with such a bittersweet and poignant trip there was always going to be. But there were also a number of little signs of him throughout the whole holiday. Again. I get a bit of an eye roll from my daughter when I say “that’s dad doing that” but it gives me so much comfort. These signs mean the world to me. I genuinely believe and feel that he was watching over us the entire time we were away. Because while he might have also said “till death do us part” and isn’t able to be with us physically, if it is at all possible for him to be with us in spirit, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he will be. With those signs and me still talking about him, it’ll be possible to keep those ripples going. And it’ll be a long time, if at all, until he’s finally dead. And death truly parts us.

I am the one thing in life I can control

Pictures of Emma Charlesworth taken during a photoshoot

So. The control freak is writing about control again. But this time it’s with a different perspective. Because she’s starting to realise that she can’t control and plan for everything. That she needs to just live life in the moment and stop the planning for all eventualities. Although, please don’t worry dear reader, I was still sat down writing a holiday itinerary the other evening!

I also want to mention that for the last two years we’ve seen Hamilton shortly before the anniversary of my late husband’s death and the blogs I’ve written for those anniversaries have been inspired by songs from it. But we were fortunate to win TodayTix lottery tickets so saw it in December last year too. The song “Wait for it” is the inspiration for this blog and title. It’s been going round in my head since we saw it then. Because it’s true. I am the one thing in life I can control. And on days like today I think about this even more.

You see, today is a particularly poignant day for me. It marks two years since I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown if I didn’t stop. It marks one year since I took my daughter to the doctor because of her anxiety. February is also full of reminders and flashbacks to this time four years ago. What was to become our final full normal month as a family of three. I don’t believe things like this will ever leave me.

I last wrote about being in control in April 2022. Two months after the nervous breakdown comment was made. Two months after I was signed off work and was approaching the day I would return. At a time when I was trying to regain the control that I’d lost on 16 March 2020 when we were suddenly all told to work from home and my world felt like it had been flipped on its head. I felt like I was starting to take back control “one tip run at a time.” I said at the time “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.” This last week has shown me that on that point, I’m making great inroads.

Just over a week ago, I received some disappointing news. Something that had been hanging over my head for just under two months hadn’t worked out the way I’d wanted it to. It hurt. It was triggering. Because it brought to the fore the feeling that I try to bury a lot of the time. That I am on my own. That I am the sole person responsible for mine and my daughter’s financial security and future. Almost as soon as I’d had the news I dropped my daughter off to go to the theatre for her birthday and then I came home to an empty house. The silence was deafening. The lack of anyone to put the kettle on for me. The lack of anyone to put their arms around me and reassure me that everything was going to be ok. I broke down on a phone call. It all felt too much for me. I took the dog for a walk to get out of the house. I just needed air and to breathe. To take stock a little bit.

But then I was reminded that while I am on my own, I’m not alone. Supportive messages started. Offers to come and keep me company came in. The amazing people that I’m so fortunate to have around me were there for me once again. I know just how lucky I am to have them. And I don’t take any of them for granted. I allowed myself the opportunity to wallow for a little bit, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, but then I started to look for the positives. I put myself in control. Truth be told it actually scared me a little bit how quickly I was able to do this. Because it’s not who I am. It’s not what I do. I’ve never been that person that bounces back ridiculously quickly. I overthink. I try to plan ahead for problems that are years away. A prime example happened when my stepdad was making the Father of the Bride speech at the first wedding we’d been to since my late husband died. I ran out of the hall having a panic attack because I didn’t know who was going to give my daughter away. “She’s 11, I don’t think we really need to worry about it just yet” was my sister’s brutally honest response. Which, to be fair, I needed. She was right. My daughter might not get married, yet here I was trying to take control and plan for something that might never happen. Because it’s what I do.

Or rather. It’s what I did. I think I first noticed the change in me during that period in 2022. When I booked our “F**k It week” because life is too short and we were just going to do things because we could. I booked activities with a few days’ notice. I lived for the moment and for enjoyment. But, if I’m being honest, it probably just was for a week. I wasn’t really brave enough to go beyond this too much. I needed the stability and security of being the person I’d always been to keep me going. To help me get through life.

But that person is changing. I know she is. I feel it in a way I haven’t really felt before. When my world imploded, when I became a widow and solo parent at the age of 39, all I wanted to do was survive. I had nothing else. If we got through an hour, a day, a week or a month that was enough for me. I remember writing a Facebook post a month after my late husband died that said “This whole experience has irrevocably changed our lives. It’ll continue to do so. But I won’t let it define us or who we become.” Did I really believe we could do this when I wrote it? Or was I trying to take back some control? I’ll never know.

But in August last year, I knew I was taking control of my life again. I mentioned in my New Years Eve blog that I’d done a boudoir photoshoot with Style Photography. This for me was one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done. Because it made me see myself through different eyes. The one thing I told the photographer that I wanted to come through in the photos was the fact that I was taking control of my life again. Now. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t completely overthought in the run up to that day. I took way more outfits than I needed because I wasn’t sure what might work. I felt the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt for a lot of the session. But as I was having my hair and make up done, I remember saying “I’ve stopped dying my hair dark, because I’ve realised that getting grey hair is a sign of growing old and that’s a privilege.” Yet while I had this bravado approach, the second the photographer started it ebbed away. I felt I was being such a rubbish model! As much as I’d dictated the photos I wanted in a way to show me taking back control, I didn’t actually feel it or think I’d like them.

A few weeks later I went back to view them. One of me was on the big screen when I sat down. Yet. I didn’t realise it was me. I was in shock. As we went through all the photos, I repeatedly asked if they’d been photoshopped. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. And then we got to the one Mr C would have called the money shot. The one that completely and utterly showed me taking back control of my life. It was exactly what I wanted. It gave me probably the biggest confidence boost I’d had since becoming a widow. As I reflect on this now, I am so grateful for what it gave me. I won the shoot after I saw a competition and entered on a whim. There we go again. Not overthinking, just chancing something. It was beyond empowering. To think that you’re a really rubbish model. To think you’re not being any good at something and then to see the output. To know that that really is you. That at the age of 42 you’ve pushed yourself to do something so far out of your comfort zone. And you like the outcome. I’ve shown these photos to a number of people now. I am so, so proud of them. And while I won’t share some of the more risqué ones publicly because, quite frankly, my daughter will never speak to me again, the collage in this blog are all from that shoot.

And since that day I’ve probably been on a bit of a trajectory. When the world went a little bit mad and threw so much at me in 24 hours just before Christmas, I responded with levity (new favourite word). I didn’t overthink at the fact that things I had no control over were happening to me. I just responded to them in the best way I know how. Similarly, when I had a burst pipe at 10pm one Saturday evening in January, I didn’t cry. I just got on with it. It needed dealing with, so I dealt with it and moved on. No debate. No stress.

The recent news I received could have pushed me one of two ways. I know that. But I’ve controlled how I’ve responded to it. I’ve looked at it from a ridiculously pragmatic perspective (once I got past the tears!) I’m in control of what comes next. It’s made me realise that I need to make changes. That my mindset is changing. That I don’t need to plan for all eventualities, because, let’s face it, they may not happen anyway. What matters in life is how I play the hand that is dealt to me. How I respond to all the challenges that come my way. The example I set to my daughter on how to deal with adversity. They are the only things that I really need to be in control of. Life will happen to me whether I like it or not, and I have absolutely no control over it. My husband dying is a prime example of that. As the song says:

  • Death doesn’t discriminate
  • Between the sinners and the saints
  • It takes and it takes and it takes
  • And we keep living anyway
  • We rise and we fall and we break
  • And we make our mistakes

We’ve fallen and we’ve broken. My god have we done that. It makes me so emotional to think about this day two years ago. But it also makes me so, so proud. I was at the bottom of a very deep and dark pit. I was, essentially, at rock bottom with what felt like no way to get back up again. It’s not been pretty, I’ll admit, but I’ve clawed my way back from the despair. I’ve had no choice. Likewise, when I think about this day last year and my daughter, it makes me emotional. But so, so proud. She has also clawed her way back from despair. I couldn’t have ever imagined writing a blog like this on either of those days. We’ve had to go through what we’ve gone through to make us the people we are today. I hate that in a way. But it’s true. Yet now is our time to rise. Now is the time to look forward and think about what next. Change doesn’t scare me in the way it once did. Because we’ve been through the most unimaginable change and sadness in our lives, yet we don’t, and I refuse to let us, live a sad life. And if change is going to continue helping us, maybe it’s time to start embracing that and letting go of the control a bit more. Who knows where this trajectory will take me. I refuse to be defined by being a widow. I’m me. And I like the person I am. I’m proud of her. There is no-one like me. As the chorus says:

  • I am the one thing in life I can control
  • I am inimitable
  • I am an original

Goodbye 2023

Images from across 2023


2023 will be done in a matter of hours. I can’t help but feel I’ve sort of blinked and missed it. And when I look back, I don’t really know where to begin. I can safely say that on 1 January 2023 I did not envisage going viral on social media, being in two national newspapers and a local newspaper because of my love for Jason Donovan, writing an article that would appear in another national newspaper, being attacked by the Easter Bunny, getting a tattoo, feeding a tiger, winning an award for my blog, braving a boudoir photoshoot or getting my middle out at Butlins. Amongst a myriad of other experiences that have happened this year. I guess this is why people say never tell me the odds. Because, quite simply, if someone had told me the odds of any of this happening, I’d never have believed them and placed a bet expecting to make a fortune.

So. Where to start? Probably at the very beginning, because it’s a very good place to start. I did what I always do when I write a blog summarising my year, read the one I wrote this time last year. I ended last year saying “bring on 2023… If I’m honest, it’s a little scary feeling more in control because I wonder what I’m actually capable of. What comes next for Emma…” I think I felt ready for what was to come my way this year. I think I felt that I was the strongest I’d been for a long time.

But within a couple of weeks, change came my way. My daughter started a new chapter in her life and became a teenager. I was unprepared for just how this would make me feel. I cried a lot in the run up to it. I had to sit and write because it was the only way I knew how to articulate the feelings I had about her entering this phase without her dad. I think it was one of the very first blogs of mine that she read. It made her cry. I didn’t intend for this to happen, but apparently this is what my blogs do to people. But as we got through her birthday and I watched her at her birthday party, I couldn’t have been prouder. My baby became a beautiful teenager surrounded by a lovely group of friends and she smiled. My word did she have a big smile on her face. She looked happy and relaxed. I simply had no real way of knowing what was heading our way just a few weeks later.

Before writing this, I made sure she was comfortable with what I was going to write. Because it’s her story and not mine. This year essentially saw her hit rock bottom. No-one would have known or suspected if they’d seen her at that party. But a year to the day since I was told I was heading for a nervous breakdown and a doctor signed me off sick, I had to take her to the doctor. It resulted in her being referred for counselling which she was then in for a number of months. As a mother, it’s the hardest thing watching your child go through something and not being able to fix it. To know how difficult it was for her to talk to a counsellor but knowing that she absolutely needed to do this. Knowing how difficult it was to make herself vulnerable. To talk about her anxiety with a stranger. But she persevered and did this. If you’d have told me after that doctor’s appointment that just a few months later she’d be painting herself green and performing as Elphaba in her dance school’s summer show, I’d never have believed you. I just wouldn’t have been able to envisage her having the confidence and self-belief to do this. But this is exactly what she did. She smashed it. It felt like the biggest win ever to see the progress she had made. For someone who has been told she’s loquacious (yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to Google the meaning of this word, trust me, I had to) I am pretty lost for words when it comes to describing just how proud of her I am and how far she’s come.

But equally, I’m proud of me and how far I’ve come. Yes. Broken Emma has been a part of my 2023 but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You have to experience and live through the bad to be able to appreciate the good. I haven’t achieved all I wanted to this year. But I’ve still achieved a heck of a lot. I changed my role at work in January. I built a balloon arch and hosted our first big gathering without Mr C for the coronation. We’ve been on a fabulous holiday with friends which saw me shockingly wear a bikini and take photos of myself in it. We’ve been able to go to the theatre. We’ve had adventures with friends.

And all of this against a backdrop of a year that hasn’t been without challenge. It was never going to be. While the sun always shines on TV (come on, I grew up watching Neighbours, falling in love with Jason and believing the Australian sunshine!) that’s not real life. This has been the year myself and my daughter have fallen ill for the first time since I was widowed. The year the perimenopause has taken hold. The year the UK Covid-19 Inquiry started with many revelations coming out. A number of which sent me down a “what if?” path. Watching the programme Partygate was tough but something I needed to do. It’s been the year my nan went into a care home. Initially just for respite, but 11 months later she’s still there. It was the right decision for her. Yet leaving her that first night broke my heart. Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s is one of the toughest things you can do. Because you simply cannot explain to them what is going on. But she settled, there’s been some other health issues throughout the year but on the whole she’s been doing ok. And then, on 23 December, we got a call. She’d had a fall and was being taken by ambulance to A&E. I was on a train home from London having seen Harry Potter and the Cursed Child with my daughter. There’s talk of a magic train in that play, and by the time the night had finished I felt I’d been on a magic train on the way home that had taken me to a parallel universe! Because not only had Nan broken her wrist, but that night also saw me get stuck behind a car accident on my way home and needing the police to try to jump-start my car after the battery died resulting in me being awake for 24 hours straight. No sun shining on me that day!

Yet as hard as this night was and as much as the tears did come, it didn’t knock me as much as it might have done this time last year. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t cried in the hospital, not only because of what had happened to my nan but because I find being in A&E a challenge. It sends me down a path of wondering what Mr C’s experience in A&E was like. What machines beeped when he was there. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wake up after some sleep on Christmas Eve and cry some more. But I looked for the humour in what had happened. I saw the funny side. The fact that you literally can’t write my life at times. I joked in a Facebook post that if anyone had the police trying to jump-start my car on their bingo card for what happens next in my life, to mark it off. I’ve learnt this year that levity is the best way for me to cope. It’s what gets me through. I doubt that will ever change.

But more than that. I’m proud of me because I know I have an air of confidence, self belief and a sparkle in my eye that wasn’t there a year ago. A lot of that has come from that boudoir photoshoot I won with Style Photography in August. Prior to this I’d have always said that in my experience there’s no such thing as luck, but I do feel exceptionally lucky for that win and the fact it gave me something I didn’t know I needed. I suspect there is a whole other blog coming about this and what it taught me. But when you look at a photo of yourself and query whether it’s been photoshopped, you realise you’ve been looking at yourself through the wrong eyes for a very long time. I’ll never know whether it was this that led to me wearing a two piece at Butlins. In 42 years, I’d never worn anything like this. I’m still absolutely staggered I did. Again. I’d have got good odds on this at the start of 2023! However. I did also learn something else very valuable during that trip. Don’t go to Butlins for a Halloween weekend. There are zombies, scary clowns and people in all sorts of masks for example, Michael Myers, who completely freak me out (masks terrify me). It’s why next year we’re going in September!

Yet all joking aside. That weekend was another example of confidence. The phrase “she’s leaking” took on a whole new meaning when I was just sat in the back of the car crying on the way. That weekend came at the end of a particularly griefy week and my hot water cylinder leaking. I toyed with not going. So, to have turned that around to be out in 80s fancy dress on the first night and with my middle out on the second isn’t something I think I could have done a year ago. I feel so lucky and privileged to have my girls in my life who got me through that weekend. Equally I feel so privileged and grateful for all the opportunities that have come my way this year. For the new people who have come into my life. For what they’ve taught me. For the friends and family who continue to be such a major part of my life and support me and my daughter. Who help me to be able to go to work and live my life. And above all else. I feel so grateful to everyone who donated so that my daughter and I were able to donate another £2,020 in Mr C’s memory from the sales of calendars featuring his photos between The Big Cat Sanctuary and Medway Hospital ICU.

As I wrote this listening to my daughter on karaoke with one of her closest friends and I looked ahead to 2024, I did so with a smile on my face. For the first time in nearly four years, I feel a real sense of contentment. 2024 is already shaping up to be a busy one and one filled with emotion. Star Wars Day is going to be pretty special. It’ll see me mark 20 years at PwC, 15 years since learning we were expecting Miss C and the day the next CharlieFest will take place to raise funds for Medway Hospital ICU. And while we have other adventures planned, we also have Mr C’s 50th birthday looming. There’s going to be a number of emotions and triggers associated with that. But my daughter and I will deal with them together. It’s simply what we do.

As for what else 2024 will bring, who knows. I’m not even going to try to guess. All I can do is ask one thing… never tell me the odds.