Tag: Grief

Children are resilient

Family photos of The Charlesworth Family

I want to start this by saying I’m no expert on grief. I’m no expert on bereavement. I’m no expert on childhood bereavement. But what I am an expert on is my child. My child who, at the age of 10, watched as her beloved father grew steadily weaker and more ill because of COVID-19. Who watched as her father walked out of our house to an ambulance accompanied by three paramedics. Who then never physically saw him again. Just think about that for a moment. It’s not fiction. It’s real. This is what happened to my beautiful, clever, amazing 10-year-old.

One of the very first things that was said to me in amongst all this carnage was “children are resilient.” It was said in a way to make me feel better, to make me feel that she would be ok despite our world crumbling around us. It wasn’t meant with any malice at all, because fundamentally children are resilient in a way that is different to adults. They are far more black and white, they are far more pragmatic, they see the world in a different way to us. But over the last two and a half years, this phrase has come back to haunt me time and time again. Because I can’t help but wonder if we are actually doing children a disservice by using this phrase and immediately telling them and their families how resilient they are. Yes, they might be, but that doesn’t mean that they don’t suffer, that they don’t feel pain, that their lives aren’t ridiculously changed forever, that they aren’t ridiculously changed forever. And quite simply, this is what has happened to my daughter.

She was a relatively carefree 10-year-old when the pandemic came into our lives. She was never meant to have been an only child, but after Mr C’s cancer we didn’t even know if we’d be able to have a child, and then after my miscarriage, we decided to just be thankful for the child we did have and that was that. I’ve wondered on more than one occasion how different her experience of bereavement and grief would have been had she had a sibling to share the pain and the loss with. It’s one of those “what if” questions that should never be asked and will never be answered.

And while I say carefree, she hadn’t always had it easy. She’d had to watch me hit rock bottom at the age of eight. She’d had to watch my nan’s health decline due to Alzheimer’s from the age of six (just six weeks before the diagnosis, she’d still been having sleepovers with my nan and baking cakes). She’d seen the usual marital arguments that happen. But, overall, she didn’t really have that much to worry about in her life. We tried to make as many memories with her as possible, we knew that she would only be a child for so long and that we needed to make the most of our time with her. I will be beyond grateful for the rest of my life that we took this approach and have a wealth of memories and photos to look back on.

But as the pandemic seemed to grow in its severity, the biggest worry and challenge I thought she was going to face was that of isolation, of not being at school, of not being able to go to dance lessons, of not seeing her friends and just being stuck with two adults in the house. But I didn’t worry too much, because children are resilient… Little did I know what she was actually going to face. I will never, ever forget the early hours of 30 March 2020 when she woke up to hear her father struggling for breath, me making a 999 call and seeing the utter panic and desperation I felt. Yes, I tried to say calm for her but in that moment I’m sure she saw it. She knew. And then, in a reality that will forever pain me, I had to leave her on her own when the paramedics arrived because they needed me. My 10-year-old had to sit on her own in our lounge, whilst knowing that upstairs people were trying to save her father and the only comfort she could get was via my mum on the phone because no-one could come in our house. But that’s ok right? Because children are resilient.

The next three weeks sort of passed in a blur. There were days we didn’t make it out of our PJs. There were days we’d have cake for breakfast and brownies for lunch. There was the day a week before he died when I had to sit her down and tell her that he was very poorly (understatement of the year) and might never come home. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I remember saying to her. “Yes, you’re saying daddy might die” was her response. Pragmatic. Real. She was bloody amazing. And then the Skype calls came. I didn’t do the first one with her because I wasn’t sure what he’d look like but having done that one, I knew she’d be ok seeing him. Each day I would ask if she wanted to talk to daddy and her response was always “well, I’ll talk to him today because he’s here today isn’t he and might not be tomorrow.” I told this story when I was on a panel at the UK Commission on Bereavement “Bereavement is everyone’s business” report launch and you could hear a pin drop. I saw members of the audience crying. It hit me then. Just how much I’ve come to accept what we went through because we were living it. How I’ve probably downplayed our experience because it was ours. And yet when other people hear it, they consider it heart-breaking.

But. The attitude and philosophy that my daughter adopted during that final week kept me going, because if she could do it, then so could I. And then the fateful day came. The call came. Hope had gone. He was going to die. She was actually about to become a child whose father had died. My biggest fear had been realised. Again, we did a Skype call and this was our chance to say goodbye. I can still remember her saying to him “I’ve not really got anything else to say to you now, I haven’t done much, I’ll go talk to nana and come back in a bit” (my mum was sat on our driveway at the time). Because let’s face it. Children are resilient. This was just something else she was dealing with.

And let’s be honest. She didn’t really have a choice but to deal with it. We were living in the middle of a global pandemic. Her father had died. I couldn’t make this any better for her. I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t real. Both of us had to deal with it. But unlike me, she didn’t cry. For weeks, if not months, she didn’t cry. She queried this with me because she didn’t understand why not. “Everyone grieves differently, please don’t worry about it” was my reply. It was all I had. The day of the funeral, she didn’t cry. She stood in the crematorium, did a reading with me, and didn’t cry. Shock. That’s what she was experiencing. Shock. I didn’t really realise it at the time, but like I say I’m an expert on my child and now I can say she was in shock. She was in shock for such a very long time. My amazingly brilliant, resilient child had experienced pain that no child should ever experience. She not only experienced loss, but went on to experience isolation, a lack of physical contact, her mother falling apart and secondary losses. Yet all the while people kept telling me that she’d be ok. Because children are resilient.

What I hadn’t really realised at the time and didn’t really realise until this year is how she aged overnight. Not just mentally, but physically. Her eyes took on a sudden weariness. She looked older. Yes, partly because she was growing up, but also partly because of the trauma she went through. And I realised this in the simplest of ways this year. We went to Florida for three weeks; it was our treat to ourselves after the heartache we’d gone through. We did a day trip out of the parks one day and she asked me for a cuddly toy as a memory, before then I couldn’t tell you the last time she asked for one. On the coach back to the hotel, she cuddled that toy. I snapped a photo and sent it to my sister. “She looks so young” was her response. And that was it. That was the moment I saw it. Our three weeks in Florida enabled my daughter to be a child again, to not have a care in the world and ultimately, to regress. She got back a little bit of her childhood on that holiday. I cried on the plane on the way home, partly because I felt I was leaving Mr C there but also because I felt I’d got my little girl back. She had been given the space and ability to be a child again. It was a momentous feeling. I wanted to keep her like this forever.

But back to reality we came. She said something to me a couple of weeks later after a difficult few days and it just winded me. “People don’t ask me how I am anymore, it’s been over two years, I’m supposed to be ok with it now aren’t I?” Because time is meant to be a healer, isn’t it? But sadly, the misconception that exists because we’re “trained” to believe that children are resilient is that they don’t suffer for any length of time. That they just bounce back from whatever comes their way. That they don’t experience pain in the same way. That grief doesn’t affect them. Without question it does. And it’s something that will be a part of them forever. I wonder how we can change that, because in my opinion it needs to be changed. Unless you’ve witnessed it first-hand, you have no real idea of what grief, trauma and pain can do to a child.

I won’t talk about all the ways I can see that she’s been affected and what it’s like for her because that’s her story to tell and I don’t want to divulge it. Maybe one day, but not now. Not while she’s living it. But what I can tell you as her mother is that she is 100% affected by her loss. That she is 100% struggling to work through and process what has happened to her. Losing her hero. Losing her protector. Losing one half of her history. And quite simply, why wouldn’t she be? It doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, it just means she’s human. It just means that she’s experienced one of the most awful things that she possibly could, and she needs to be allowed time and space to work through it. She needs love and care. She needs people to ask her how she is. She needs to talk about her dad. She needs to know that all of how she is feeling is ok.

And interestingly enough, from my perspective, it is this that I believe will build her resilience and help her as she goes through the teenage years and adulthood. Needing help doesn’t mean she’s not resilient, that she’s mad, that she can’t cope or that she’s weird. It just means she’s human and vulnerable. And I will be there with her on every step of this journey. I am so grateful for the child bereavement charities that I’ve spoken to who have given me guidance, who have supported her and will continue to support her.

But most of all, as her mother, I couldn’t be prouder of her for the way she has responded over the last couple of years. It’s not been easy; I’d be lying if I said it had. But I hope that she’ll retain the human and vulnerable elements to her as she gets older, because they’ll be two of the most valuable qualities she’ll ever possess. I hope that her experience doesn’t define her but instead helps shape her. To help her go into adulthood retaining that realistic and pragmatic view on the world. To truly understand that being resilient doesn’t mean that you don’t find things hard. That you don’t suffer. That it’s ok to need help now and then. And without question, I know that if she takes this into adulthood, it’s something that her dad would be very proud of her for doing too.

I am not Wonder Woman

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

To be honest, that title could just be the blog. Done. There’s not much else to say really. But for someone who spent years saying to her daughter “have you ever seen me and Wonder Woman in the same room? How do you know I’m not her then?” to finally be admitting I’m not takes a heck of a lot. Especially given three months ago I asked to be portrayed as her in a caricature!

But now, at the age of 41, two and half years to the day after being widowed, I will finally admit it. I am not Wonder Woman.

I’ve always had a fairly crazy and hectic life. For years, we had this life together. Mr C and I would often be like passing ships in the night, I worked full time, he worked full time, he was a part-time photographer, he was in two bands, we had a child etc, etc… So many people would say to us “I don’t know how you do it” and I feel like I now know what I’d say to them.

Having been without him for what feels like forever, it’s funny (or ironic really) looking back. The amount of times that I would say to him that I’d just like it if he did more, that I’d appreciate more help and that I was sick of doing everything by myself. But the simple reality is that he did way more than I think I ever gave him credit for. And now, two and half years after his death and with the world pretty much back to a pre-pandemic state, I totally appreciate that. I feel so sad that I didn’t really see it and value it when he was here. That I never said “thank you” enough.

It’s taken such a long time for me to have to worry about and manage living again. I was shielded after he first fell ill and died because the world was shut down. We didn’t have to worry about a social life, we didn’t really have to worry about living. We were just essentially surviving. We 100% needed to do this, it was the only way for us to begin to process what had happened to us. To adjust to life just the two of us. We became insular because the world made us that way. And in many ways, I’m so incredibly grateful for that. We only really had to focus on each other, we had no choice but to learn to live without him in our lives, we couldn’t hide from it because it was so bloody obvious and apparent he wasn’t there. He was gone, never ever coming back and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it.

But over the course of 2021, I realised that was never going to be sustainable. I realised we couldn’t avoid life forever. I spent a lot of last year saying that 2022 was going to be our year. The year we’d start living again. We’d spent a long time in shock. We’d spent a long time with life on hold. We’d spent a long time keeping him ever present in our lives. We’ll always do that, but I knew we’d need to find a way to keep him ever present while moving forwards. Not moving on, I don’t like that phrase, but moving forwards.

Yet what I’ve come to realise more than ever this year is that everyday life is hard work. Being a mother is hard work. Being a widow is hard work. Being a person trying to forge a future is hard work. Wanting a career is hard work. I’m exhausted most of the time trying to juggle everything. My entire life feels like a military mission. Spontaneity is not a word that ever really enters my vocabulary. At the start of September, I sat down and worked out all the days I wanted to go into the office between then and Christmas. Then I had to check that my doggy daycare lady could have my dog on those days. Then I had to check my mum was available to help with my daughter and pick the dog up on some of those days. My poor mum and stepdad now have a column on their organiser calendar just for us. Without them I’d really struggle. To go to the office. To have a social life. To live. I completely took this for granted before I was widowed. I’d just let Mr C know if I’d made plans and he’d be the one at home with our daughter instead. And vice versa. I just went to work. Simple really. I’d be up and out of the house before either Mr C or our daughter got up, he’d then get her ready in the morning and drop her at her childminder. This was our life; I didn’t have to think about it. But now, I have to ask for help simply to go to work. Crazy really. It’s the little things that you take for granted.

It’s one of the reasons that I feel quite passionately that I am not a single parent. I have friends who are single parents and they’re all blinking amazing. But I’m not. Yes, it might sound like semantics to someone not in my position, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m a solo parent. It’s bloody relentless. My daughter is, and always will be my priority, but it’s relentless. I can’t take it for granted that I can go out when invited, because if I don’t have a babysitter, it doesn’t happen. Every decision about her, every financial aspect of her life, all the running around, the organising, the arguments, the good times are all down to me. I can’t play good cop, bad cop with someone else when it comes to disciplining her anymore because I’m literally the only cop in the house! I miss co-parenting, I miss having someone to sanity check decisions about her with, I miss having someone that was my equal when it came to her. I reckon I always will. No matter how old she is.

But it’s not just parenting where I miss an equal. It’s in the day to day running of a house. Absolutely everything falls to me. I’ve said before about wanting to borrow my friend’s husband on a Tuesday because that’s my busiest night of the week and this really came to the fore earlier this year. I’d been to see Ronan Keating with my sister on a Tuesday, I got home at 12:45am and promptly realised I needed to put the bins out. Because my mum had picked my daughter up from school, they’d got the dog from daycare and then stayed at my mum’s, they’d had no need to go back to my house. And given no-one else is there, there simply was no-one to put the bins out except me. Reality of being a widow 101. You can go out, have a brilliant day and evening, and then come home to be brutally reminded that you are on your own and have to do everything. It sucks. No other way about it. Coming home and being able to just go to bed without having to sort anything out first rarely ever happens now.

I’m basically always on 99% of the time. Trying to do everything I’ve always done. Trying to work. Trying to be the organiser. Trying to have a social life. Trying to be there for everyone. Trying to give my daughter the same life she had before Mr C died. Over the last 10 days I’ve spoken at the UK Commission of Bereavement report launch, been to the office four times, helped at an event I’ve been involved with since 2004, seen Jason in Grease twice (crazy even by my standards!), been to the Warner Brothers Harry Potter Studio Tour and dealt with the usual juggling. I used to be a pro at a life like this, but looking at the photos, I can see how tired I look. These photos show me I’m not the same person as I used to be. Yet I know I’ve spent a heck of a lot of 2022 attempting to prove I am. Trying to prove I can do this. Prove I can do it all. We’ve done countless theatre trips (a number of which were rearranged from 2020 and 2021) and days out, we’ve been to Florida, we’ve been to Disneyland Paris, we’re going to New York. All of which are beyond bittersweet because we can only do them because of his death, but we’ve done them.

And more than this, since he fell ill and died, I’ve had so many people comment on how much I’ve done to keep his memory alive and honour him. The funeral, the memorial service, the charity event, the memorial bench, the podcasts, the newspaper and magazine articles, the blog, the charity calendar, becoming an Ambassador for Widowed and Young… I always retort with “but this is what anyone would do” but now I’m not so sure. Now, I suspect I’ve done it all because I’m simply terrified of him being forgotten, of what I will do with my life if I’m not desperately trying to keep his memory alive. And above all else. Now I wonder if I was doing it, as I did with the dating app, to prove that I could.

But, who the heck am I trying to prove anything to? Nobody puts any pressure or expectation on me. Expect one person. Me.

I’ve clung desperately to try to be the wonder woman I was before he died. Because to admit I’m not and I can’t do it all without him makes me feel like a failure. I’m a strong, independent woman who can do this by herself, why shouldn’t I have the life I’ve always had? Why shouldn’t I be able to give our daughter the life she’s always had? To adjust our lives, to accept I can’t do it all, to accept that running a house, managing the finances, working, raising a child, having a social life, buying all the presents, planning and everything else that goes with being a grown up means I have to accept that my emotional resilience has been irrevocably altered by his death. It means I have to accept I’m not who I was before. But that’s the reality. My life can’t be the same as it was before. Because I am 100% not who I was before. I can’t be two people and do everything two people did. The simple, hard-hitting truth is that our lives are different. I just wasn’t given a choice as to whether I wanted them to be.

Recently, very good friends of mine (the sort of friends you’ll allow to be brutally honest with you) have started asking me to slow down. They’ve told me that they’re exhausted just watching me. That they’re worried about me and what I’m trying to hide from by keeping continually busy. But I can honestly say that I don’t think I’m hiding from anything. I simply think I’m someone who is still struggling to find her way as a widow. To know where she fits in this world now. To get the balance right. To learn how to be an adult by herself. To feel confident in raising a child by herself.

Don’t tell them, but they’re right. I know and I feel that I need to slow down. I’ve proven that I can have a manic life like I had before. The reality is though that I don’t want it. I find it insanely hard work. I started this blog by saying I can respond to the phrase “I don’t know how you do it” and it’s simple. It’s taken the world opening up again to help me see it, it’s taken two and a half years since becoming a widow to see it, it’s taken the sheer exhaustion of life to help me see it. I could do it because I was part of a team, there were two of us, we shared responsibility for our daughter, we shared responsibility for everything. I could pretend to be Wonder Woman because I had my own superhero that meant I had a shot at achieving it.

So, while it pains me to admit it, this is my first step in pausing, breathing, slowing down and not trying to be a wonder woman and do it all. I realise now that not all superheroes wear capes. It doesn’t mean I’m a failure. It means I’m simply human. It means I have the greatest superpower of them all. Vulnerability. Couple that with the superhero and guardian angel who will always have my back, and who knows where that’s going to take me. Changes need to happen. Changes are coming. I am not Wonder Woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve, and can’t live a wonderful life that’s fulfilling but less hectic. It’s time to reprioritise. It’s time to refocus. It’s time to take control of me and my new life.

I owe it to our daughter. I owe it to Mr C. But most importantly. I owe it to me. 

It’s been a long time

Various images of Emma with quote from Young, Widowed and Dating

Oh how I’ve debated writing this one. I’ve debated publishing this one. I’ve debated whether this is a part of my story that I want to share. I’ve debated whether it’s a sensible one to write. But the trouble is. This has been whirling around in my head. And when that happens, I know I need to write. And I also doubt that I’m the only one that has gone through, or will go through this…

A while back, I decided to join a dating app. I didn’t really know why at that time. But it felt like something I needed to try. I didn’t even know what I really wanted to come out of it. I wasn’t entirely certain I wanted a relationship. I wasn’t really sure anyone would want me and all my baggage. Let’s face it, I come with a lot! And around the same time I randomly heard a Bruce Springsteen song (Secret Garden) that I hadn’t heard for years. There’s a couple of lines in it that resonated:

“She’ll let you into the parts of herself

That’ll bring you down.

She’ll let you in her heart

If you got a hammer and a vice.”

Yup. That was my worry. Admit to the dead husband and I’d bring anyone that was interested in me down. And the fear of being hurt and losing someone again makes me feel as though my heart is impenetrable without serious trying on their part. God help anyone that made the mistake of liking me! But most importantly, whatever was to come of this, I didn’t want anything that would throw me and my daughter off kilter. I knew that if anything was to come of this, it would need to be handled exceptionally carefully. But something inside of me said I needed to experiment and try a dating app.

I barely told anyone. I didn’t want any judgement. I didn’t want any pressure. I didn’t want people asking how it was going. I didn’t want any expectations. I didn’t want my mum rushing out and buying a hat! This was, quite simply, something I needed to do for me. For the first time in a very long time, I was 100% selfish. I did something that was completely and utterly for me. It was, in essence, my secret and a gift to myself.

I’m not going to lie. It felt absolutely alien to me. Choose your best photos. Sell yourself in a paragraph. Give people a brief overview of yourself by answering some questions. I had never had to do this before. I’d known Mr C for nearly three years before we started dating. I didn’t have to sell myself to him in a paragraph, a natural connection formed over time. And ultimately, that’s why I was sceptical about being on an app. I just didn’t think you could feel an attraction or form a connection with someone without actually knowing them. How on earth could that happen?

But more than that. I didn’t really like the person that I was turning into from being on it. I felt I was becoming such a shallow, ruthless person. I’d reject people based on looks, their height, whether they were vaccinated, if they said that COVID-19 was a hoax, if they were called Charlie or Stuart, if they said they wanted no drama, poor grammar (yes, honestly!), fetish requirements (opened my eyes a little though!) and acronyms that I didn’t understand (you know you’ve been out of the dating scene for a long time when you’re having to Google what people are putting in their profile because you haven’t got a clue what they’re saying).

However. I did send some messages to people that passed the ruthless test. The majority of them didn’t respond however. Which, of course, does wonders for your self esteem. A couple did. Some were literally laughable with how forward they were. Definite eye rolls from me at some of the messages. There were a few nice chats but that was it. “Ok,” I thought, “I’m capable of doing this, I’m capable of having a message conversation with someone I’ve never met. Get me.” But the first time someone asked if he could ring me, I made up an excuse. Shut that down straight away. Because, as I’ve said, I didn’t really think this was what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted to come of this.

And then. A guy responded to one of my messages. He seemed “normal.” We started messaging. Just a few a day to start with, but then they gradually started to increase. Hmmmm. This wasn’t meant to happen. He was completely and utterly on my wavelength. We seemed to have a huge amount in common. We discussed anything and everything. He made me smile, he made me laugh and I found myself looking forward to the little notification that I had a message. Seriously. What was happening? This wasn’t on the plan (probably because I didn’t laminate it). I wasn’t meant to like someone. This didn’t happen on dating apps. He ended up invariably being the last person I messaged before I went to sleep and the first person I messaged when I woke up. Hmmmm.

The very few people who knew about this encouraged me to ask him to meet for coffee. Nope. I batted them away whenever they suggested it. To do that would make this real. To do that would mean I’d have to deal with it in real life. Hiding behind messages was just fine for me. I could be who I wanted to be. I could be Emma. I wasn’t a widow, a mother, a colleague or a friend. I was, quite simply, Emma. It was refreshing. I didn’t want to have to address any elephants in the room about why I was on the app. I just wanted to be me. Not meeting him allowed me to do that.

The messaging went on for just over a month. We didn’t exchange numbers. He didn’t put pressure on me to meet. He was sweet. He seemed genuine. What on earth was the catch? He seemed too good to be too true. And then. One Sunday evening, when I went to send a message, I made a discovery. He’d deleted his profile and vanished. Just like that. It was over. Whatever “it” was.

My stomach dropped. I felt the tears start to come. I felt sick. I’d let my guard down. I’d trusted someone enough to have all these messages covering a wide range of topics. And then, in the blink of an eye, I’d felt like I’d been played for a fool. Of course no-one would seriously be interested in me. How on earth could I have been so stupid?

But. The one emotion that I didn’t feel was anger. I didn’t want to yell about the injustice of it all. I didn’t want to shout at anyone. After the initial feeling of stupidity, I just sort of accepted it. That confused me. And oddly enough, I felt relief. Not hurt. But relief. Again. What was happening? Why wasn’t I feeling what I “should” be feeling? What on earth was going on in my head and my heart now?

I sat and gave it some serious thought. And that’s when it hit me. This was actually the perfect outcome for my first foray into dating again. Because at this point, it just helped crystallise that I probably wasn’t ready for a relationship and all the quagmire that comes with it. The relief was that it wasn’t going anywhere. I wouldn’t have to deal with the where is this going question. All that had happened, was that I’d reached a point in my life where I wanted and needed some flirting, banter, chat and to be made to feel good about myself. I got that from doing this. But why? Why had I needed that?

Again. Serious thought time. When I’d first subscribed to the app and said to my sister I didn’t know why I was doing it, she told me the answer to that was simple. “To prove you can.” And that’s really what this whole experience came down to. I needed to prove something to myself. Rightly or wrongly. For over 20 years, I’d had someone on hand to pay me compliments (admittedly they’d sometimes be backhanded ones, but still), I’d had someone to message on my way home from work, I’d had someone to make me smile, I’d had someone who could make me feel good about myself on those down days. And that person went just as I was approaching my 40s…

Now. I’m not saying I stressed about turning 40. I’m not saying I need validation from a man. Far, far from it. I instil this in my daughter on a very regular basis. “You are enough. You simply need validation from yourself.” But. Let’s be honest. Who doesn’t like to receive compliments? Who doesn’t like being flattered? Who doesn’t enjoy having someone to talk to who you’ve got a connection with? Who doesn’t enjoy a bit of intimacy? Yet, all of a sudden I found myself alone in my 40s, knowing that I had more grey hair, knowing that I had more wrinkles, knowing that I was carrying more weight than I used to and being way too self critical of myself. I was trying to navigate the world alone at a time in my life I should never have been.

Yes, Mr C and I had had those random conversations about if something happened to either of us and us wanting the other to be happy, meet someone else etc… But, when I said “til death do us part” at the age of 24, I didn’t really expect to be facing this dilemma. I expected us to grow old together. I expected to have someone there to pick me up on my down days. To make me feel good about myself when I needed it. I didn’t anticipate what would happen. I didn’t anticipate being a single person and basically being surrounded by couples and happy families. It’s bloody hard work. Seeing people in the throes of new love. Seeing people loved up. Seeing people compliment their partners. Seeing lives move forward as people celebrate their anniversaries and share all the things they love about their other halves. No matter how happy you are for others, that jealous pang hits. You find yourself withdrawing. Because it’s easier to do that than feel alone.

And that’s ultimately why I did this. That’s why I joined the app. My sister was 100% right. Annoyingly. It was, quite simply, to prove that I could. That if I really wanted to, I could sell myself. I could find someone to connect with. I could find someone who would appreciate me. Who would make me feel wanted and desired. Who would make me feel flattered and complimented. But this was also something I was doing as me. As Emma. People weren’t liking me and responding to messages because I was a widow, a mother, a colleague or a crazy Jason fan because I didn’t share any of that in my profile. They were liking Emma. I said when I launched this blog that I was trying to figure out where I was going next. Answering who Emma is the $64 million question. This experience has helped me on that quest and to answer that question.

After that Sunday discovery, I did keep looking at the app. I did send some more messages. But my heart was never really in it. It hadn’t been from the off if I’m perfectly honest. It really wasn’t for me. It wasn’t what I wanted to be doing with my life. I let the paid subscription run out. I didn’t renew it. However, I can’t say I’ll never subscribe again. I can’t say I won’t consider dating. After all, as my daughter forges her own life and becomes more independent of me, I’m going to need someone to talk to. As wonderful as my dog is, he’s not the best at conversation or compliments! And as I know all too well, you never know what life is going to throw at you. Someone could come into my life at any point. I could get swept off my feet tomorrow. And maybe at some point I’d actually be ready to brave that coffee. Or brave being taken out for dinner. I mean, let’s face it, I’m never going to turn down a free meal! And as Rachel, a fellow widow wrote in a brilliant Twitter thread about her requirements, once a month would be enough, (I could literally have written this thread myself).

But for now, I’m content. I’ve done what I needed to do in this new world I’m navigating. I’ve got what I needed. I like the new found confidence and glint in my eye. Yes. Most of that has come from me and all the work and effort I’ve put into me through counselling and looking after myself, but some of it, without a shadow of a doubt, has come from my app man.

And how do I feel about him and the whole episode now? He shockingly hasn’t put me off men for life. I’ll never regret those messages or any of the time I spent in conversation with him. The thought of it still makes me smile. I suspect it always will. I’ll forever be thankful to him. He reminded me how to accept and say thank you for a compliment about me. Not about how brave or strong I am, not about how I’ve coped with what’s happened to me, not about how I’m raising my daughter. But about me. We come back to why I did this, I just needed to be selfish for a bit. But more than that. I’ve said before about believing people come into your lives for a reason. I wholeheartedly believe that this is the case with him.

And the reason? To give me back something I didn’t realise I’d lost. To give me a bit of a confidence boost. To help me realise what I needed and was looking for. To help me appreciate myself again. To help me look at myself through different eyes. Not the eyes of a grieving widow. Not the eyes of a devoted mother. Not the eyes of someone trying to hold down a full time job while also juggling her life.

But through the eyes of someone who can appreciate all she has to offer. Who can appreciate that she deserves more than she gives herself credit for. Who can appreciate all she’s been through and realise she’s right to be proud of herself. Who can realise that the wrinkles and the extra weight are part of her story. They’re something to be proud of. Because they reflect her life. They reflect the fact that she’s still standing and still keeping going despite everything that life has thrown at her. It hit me one day when I took a selfie to send to him. Because I looked at it and didn’t criticise it. I’ve started taking more selfies. I’m less critical of myself now. I can see and like the sparkle in my eyes again. I can look at pictures of me, like them and appreciate myself for the person I am. The person I’m evolving into. The person who is, without question, enough. And ultimately, that’s an incredible gift for him to have given me.

Be Thankful

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

It was on this day three years ago, that a text message from a six-year-old changed my life. That might sound fairly dramatic, but that message really did have a massive impact on me and how I look at life. There isn’t a chance that she’d even remember it, but I do.

For those of you that follow my personal accounts on social media, you’ll know that every day I post something which includes this: #BeThankful. I try to find one thing a day that I’m thankful for, no matter what my day might have been like. It’s something that I started doing in 2019 and has now become a part of my everyday life.

In my previous blog on my mental health, I wrote about how 2018 was the lowest I’d ever been mentally. I was at rock bottom. It took me a lot of time and effort to claw my way back to feeling like I could survive and cope with life again. But the start of 2019 suddenly saw stress building again. Within the space of 24 hours my sister and I went from the euphoria of seeing Boyzone and me catching Ronan Keating’s hat to being in disarray at care for my nan. As my rollercoaster life started to dip and the stress started, I could feel myself slipping back into old ways. What I was most comfortable doing. It was so easy to focus on all the negative in my life.

But I knew that I couldn’t go back to how I’d felt in 2018. I knew that I had to do something that would stop me just focusing on the negative and try to change my mindset. I wasn’t entirely sure what I could do but then in amongst the stress, I mentioned to Mr C about something good that had happened that day. It was like an epiphany. In that moment, I decided that no matter how hard my day had been I would find one thing a day to “Be Thankful” for and share it on Twitter. I tagged in some of my work colleagues to let them know what I was doing with an image that said “Be thankful for what you have. Be fearless for what you want.” I sort of figured that if I’d publicly said I was going to do it, that I’d be accountable for doing it. It was almost like a pressure that I put on myself to do this. But a good pressure. Yet when I made that first post, I had no idea whether I’d even be able to stick to it. I had no idea whether it would actually make the blindest bit of difference.

But over the next few months, it did make a difference. I started to realise that even on those days when there were a number of stresses that I could find something. Some days it was small such as cooking a meal for Mr C and not giving him food poisoning (oh how that one has come back to haunt me now!) the washing basket being empty, a nice walk or a good day at work with brilliant colleagues. Other days it might be something fairly big such as seeing a show and being thankful for it. It was starting to change my mindset. It was starting to change the way I looked at the world.

And then I reached 18 June 2019. I vividly remember this day. It was a particularly tough day at work. I’d been going through a particularly tough few weeks and it all culminated on this day. I left the office in tears. I wasn’t in a great place. I got home and said to Mr C that I wasn’t going to do my Be Thankful’s anymore. That there was just no point. That they were a complete waste of time. I was fed up of trying to find the positive even on days when there really, really wasn’t anything. I suspect I also yelled or cried at my sister over the phone. Because a little while later I got a text message from my six-year-old niece. I’ve added it to the image at the top of this blog. When I received it, I cried. Because on that ridiculously tough day, she reminded me that I was loved. She made me smile with her innocence. And she taught me an incredibly valuable lesson that day. That even when you might not realise it initially or feel it, there really is always, always something to be thankful for. She became the inspiration I needed. She spurred me on.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be the start of the next phase of the 2019 rollercoaster ride. I’d suspected that I was at a crossroads in my career at that point and that day in particular, cemented it for me. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going to go or what to do next. I thought back to some advice that has always stuck with me shared by a previous line manager “it’s your life, it’s your career, the only person who can change it is you.” After a lot of soul searching and external coaching, I made the move to a new role. I joined a fabulous team. I felt I’d finally found where I was meant to be. It put me back on the upward trajectory of my rollercoaster. This was the start of September 2019, just six months before my rollercoaster would completely dip again in a somewhat spectacular fashion that none of us would have seen coming.

It actually scares me now to reflect on this. Because a few weeks after I started my new role, Mr C and I were having a conversation in the car. I remember it like it was yesterday. I have no doubt that I always will. My tweet for the day was this ““Life feels settled” I said to Mr C today. “It’s like I’m in the calm before the storm.” Who knows if or when that storm will come but on day 230 I’m going to #BeThankful for the calm and all that brings.” I shared it with an image that said, “Be thankful for all you have, because you never know what might happen next!” Wow. It’s sort of hard to remember and contemplate a time in my life when I didn’t feel like I was living in a storm. Two weeks after I posted that tweet, we learnt there was a chance he could be made redundant. Three months later, he was. Six months later his first symptom of COVID-19 showed. Seven months later he was dead. Seems I was fairly prophetic with my calm before the storm statement. I blinking wish I hadn’t been.

But even after we had the news that he might be made redundant, I continued doing my daily Be Thankful’s. I ended up doing them for an entire year. They sort of became ingrained in me. Other people started to tell me they looked forward to seeing them and reminding themselves to look for something in their day. I remember someone telling me that she had tried to do a daily “Be Happy” but all it had really served to do was show her that she wasn’t happy. It’s interesting isn’t it? Because when we try to force ourselves to feel something, it becomes incredibly difficult to do. When we allow ourselves to feel something no matter what else might have happened and to help us breathe a little bit, it becomes far more natural. I don’t in any way claim to be a psychologist, but these conversations do make me stop and think about people, how we respond to situations and what helps our mindset.

And of course, I do remember overthinking it and asking people what I should do when my year was up. I hadn’t really had an idea of how long I’d do them for when I started, but a year felt like a good time to finish. And of course. The marketer in me did a nice little word cloud when that year was up. I queried if I should do a daily “Be Brave” (my sister started giving me ideas such as jumping out of a plane). But again. Had I gone down that route, it probably would have been prophetic. Who knew what I was about to face in my life. But I didn’t. Shortly before Mr C fell ill and I was getting fed up with all the doom and gloom on my timeline, I started doing the Be Thankful’s again. I invited other people to join me. One of the Twitter family started doing it, I believe she’s on day 823 now. I love seeing her daily tweets and knowing that someone else does this as well.

After I started them again in March 2020, I carried on doing them for a little while after he fell ill and then I stopped. It was just something else I didn’t need to be doing or thinking about. I had enough on my plate. And to be honest, I was completely struggling coming up with things in those ridiculously early days. It was bleak. It was hard work. No two ways about it. But it recently popped up on my Facebook memories that I did start doing them again in June 2020. I’d had the weirdest day where grief was getting me in every which way. Of course it was. My husband hadn’t been dead for two months, I don’t know why I expected anything else. I was up. I was down. I was up. I was down again. And then I managed to build a computer chair. I felt I was going to carry them on this time.

Except I know I didn’t. At some point I stopped doing them. I can’t tell you when and I can’t really tell you why, because I don’t actually know. Until 1 December 2021. I remember it because it was a day that felt like someone had flicked a switch. I spent a lot of the day in tears. Mr C absolutely loved Christmas and just seeing December on the calendar and knowing we were about to do our second Christmas without him tipped me over the edge. It felt that it was going to be harder than the one the previous year. I could feel the potential for me to spiral. So, I decided that I was going to return to an old faithful just for a month and see where it took me… I’m now on day 201 of this round of Be Thankful.

I’m so incredibly glad I started doing it again. Yes, there are days when it feels like a stretch to find something. But I always do. People always tell me that I’m so positive. I disagree. I don’t think I’m positive. I don’t pretend the tough times don’t happen. I don’t try to turn them into a positive. But what I am is a realist. And I try to find just the tiniest shred of hope and something to appreciate even on those tough days. About a month ago, that same niece of mine said “I’m proud of you” when I was talking about being nominated for an award for my blog. Again. Something so small at the end of a really long day, but the impact it had was immeasurable. Finding one thing that is good in a day is just something I have to do to help my mindset and help me survive the madness.

Because as the prints around my house remind me. There is always, always something to be thankful for. I don’t know why I ever forgot that really. The kindest and sweetest six-year-old taught me that three years ago. And I will forever be thankful to her that she did.

Suddenly you’re seeing me, just the way I am

A year ago, I wrote a blog called “When I grow up, I’m going to marry Jason Donovan.” I’ve now given a copy of that blog to Jason. “I promise you I’m going to read this darling; I promise you” was his reply. I’ll be honest. Even if he didn’t, it’s not the end of the world. Because he called me darling. Life made in that moment!

And for those of you who have followed my story, you’re not going to be surprised when I say this viewpoint about wanting to marry him hasn’t changed over the past year. I can’t lie. Every time I meet him, there’s still a nervousness and a tiny part of me that always wonders whether this will be the occasion where I change my opinion. Whether this will be the occasion where he crushes my love. But no. It hasn’t happened this year. If I’m completely honest, I doubt it ever will. But what has happened since my last blog is a vital step forward on the widowhood rollercoaster, a marriage proposal and the biggest surprise of my life…

Let’s start with the vital step forward on the widowhood rollercoaster. I’ll start by giving some context. When I look back at my Facebook profile photos from across the years, Jason features in more of them than Mr C! I’m lucky that my late husband was fine with this. After all, he knew his place! But since he fell ill, all my profile pictures had featured him. Aside from one, when I wanted to show solidarity with my friend who had just lost her partner. I felt that was ok to have and people would understand. Because at the back of my mind was the worry that I’d be judged of having a profile photo that didn’t feature Mr C or didn’t have a valid reason behind it. Now, a lot of this comes from my own insecurities and fear of judgement since becoming a young widow. I know that. But I worried. Would I be accused of moving on? Would I be accused of forgetting him? But this is my life now. Overthinking absolutely everything. And there’s also a small part that couldn’t change the photo because of guilt. That I’m still able to live my life, take new photos and make new memories when he no longer can. Grief really is the most conflicting thing to live with.

A prime example of my overthinking about this came in August last year. We went to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat at the London Palladium, and waited at the stage door. Something I’ve done many, many times. This time though, I was pushed forward to talk to him by a fellow Jason fan who mentioned what had happened to Mr C. Thus followed a lovely chat between me and Jason about everything I’d gone through. I turned round to see my sister and my friend in tears! They were so moved by how lovely he was and how intently he’d been listening to me. But that’s Jason for you. A genuinely lovely guy. While we were having that conversation, my sister got the most wonderful picture. I walked round the corner to Pret A Manger to grab some lunch, (it’s literally a two minute walk) and when in there I debated whether I should change my profile photo. Whether it was the “right thing” to do. By comparison, when my daughter and I had met Jason at the same place in 2019, my profile photo had been updated before I’d even made it to Pret. But this time, I just couldn’t bear to do it. For that fear of judgement from others. So, after debating over lunch, I didn’t do it. I didn’t change my profile photo. Despite me absolutely loving the photo and what it represented.

Fast forward to October 2021. I was fortunate enough to get some Meet and Greet tickets at the last minute to Jason’s Even More Good Reasons Tour. I don’t think two days’ notice was adequate preparation time really, but I did it. I overthought my outfit (to be fair I’d have probably done this pre-widowhood) and my sister and I made our way to the Hammersmith Apollo. It was only when we got there that we learnt that we’d only be allowed in one at a time. “What on earth am I meant to say to him?” was her response to that. She messaged my brother-in-law. He responded with “go in first and tell him to run.” And while she did go in first, she didn’t tell Jason to run. In fact, she came out with tears in her eyes “he’s just so lovely, I can’t right now” was her description of the conversation they’d had. But I couldn’t ask her why, because it was my turn to go in.

He told me what a lovely conversation he’d had with her. (Shockingly, she didn’t tell him to run. He confirmed that!). And it won’t surprise anyone to know that I left that experience completely agreeing with my sister. He really is just so lovely. I received a brilliant picture from that moment. It came through while the concert was happening and as soon as I looked it, it made my evening. It was a proper smile on my face. The smile reached my eyes. You can see the adoration in my face. You can tell how happy that moment was making me. Just like the conversation I’d had in August.

And I knew the instant that I saw it, that I’d love this to be my profile photo, but that thought I’d had before was nagging at me. What would people think of me if I no longer had Mr C on my profile? Yet on the train home, I did decide to go ahead and change it. Believe me, it took everything I had to click “save.” When I did this, I cried. It might sound small, it might sound stupid, but to me, it felt huge. It felt like I’d just taken a massive step forward. It felt like I was finally giving myself permission to keep living. It felt that I was finally allowing myself to be more than just a widow. To show people who I really am (title of this blog works on so many levels!) One of my friends even commented “well done” when she saw it. She knew just how much it had taken for me to do it. And it’s probably no coincidence at all that it was a picture of me and Jason that made me do it. My one constant since childhood.

I woke up the following morning still on cloud nine. This was what I shared on social media…

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who wanted to grow up and marry Jason Donovan. That little girl went on to go through quite a bit in her life. Jason always proved to be a constant for her. Yesterday, that little girl got one step closer to realising her childhood dream…

I am aware I bleat on about him (a little bit). I am aware that it possibly looks like I have a problem (a small one). But yesterday just reminded me why I am the way I am. He’s honestly one of the most genuine people there is. He reminds me of a time when life was simple, and I didn’t have a care in the world. And for the second time this year, he had my little sister in tears because of the care and compassion he showed regarding Mr C. Spoiler alert. Even she is starting to have a soft spot for him now. Only a little one mind you.

So, when she grows up, that little girl still wants to marry him. His proposal is in writing now. That must be legally binding ❤️

That’s right. I got a marriage proposal. From Jason Donovan. And it’s in writing. 23 years I’d been waiting for this moment. And it was definitely worth the wait! My sister had teed it up for me when she spoke to him, she explained everything I’d gone through over the past couple of years and thanked him for all he’d done for me. What she was unprepared for was how much compassion Jason would show to her about this. The questions he would ask about Mr C and what had happened. That’s what brought the tears to her eyes. The kindness and the compassion.

So, when he and I spoke, he said “I understand there’s a question you’ve wanted to be asked for years, shall we do this then?” I was lost for words. He did tell me not to tell the wife, but I told him how lovely she is too. I was sure she’d understand just what this meant to me! I clutched that signed programme for the entire concert. It is my most treasured possession now. It’s framed. I sent pictures of it to everyone as soon as walked out of the Meet and Greet. But it was the response from my daughter that got me the most. “God save me” was her response. It made me take a sharp intake of breath. Because it was no doubt what Mr C would have said. Or something incredibly similar. That pang of missing him hit. Even when I was the most excited I’d ever been, the happiest I’d been in months, the pang of him not being here was there. I’ve come to accept that’s how my life will always be. The happiness and the pain being intertwined.

And then we come on to the biggest surprise of my life, which is obviously linked to Jason. In October last year, I did something most unlike the old me. I trekked halfway across the country to meet up with someone I’d never met after she so very kindly offered me tickets to see Jason in Leeds. It sounds crazy. I’d never let my daughter do it. Travel halfway across the country to meet someone you’ve only ever spoken to on social media and take her at face value that she’ll give you tickets to a gig. But this is the new me. The new me that realises that life is too blinking short not to do crazy things every now and then. The new me who has been so absolutely blown away by the kindness shown to me. I just knew it would be ok.

I was right. As soon as I walked into the pub to meet her, I knew she was my type of person. She is without question my kindred spirit. So much so, I invited her to my belated 40th birthday party. Despite only ever meeting her that once in Leeds. Sadly, she was unable to attend. Or so I thought. It turns out that she had colluded with my sister to be there. She travelled 5.5 hours to be there. With her somewhat wonderful husband who had never met me (bloody love that man). They walked into my party wearing Kylie and Jason masks so I wouldn’t recognise them. When they came over to me and lifted them up, I think I actually shrieked. I hugged them both so much. I couldn’t get over it. I couldn’t believe people would do that for me. Travel all that way and surprise me. A mutual love of Jason has brought the most wonderful, full of life person into my world. I’m so lucky.

And since my marriage proposal last year we’ve repeatedly joked on Twitter that she will be my chief official bridesmaid. So, her gift to me at my birthday was a photoshopped image of me, her and my sister onto the Neighbours wedding photo. She even got Jason to sign it for me when she did a Meet and Greet. We come back to that word I used a lot in my blog about him last year. Kindness. It means the absolute world and invariably costs nothing. Though I’m not going to lie. I do wonder what he must have thought when he saw that picture! And I also feel he probably needs some warning ahead of us going to the theatre or a gig together. I’m thinking someone should brief The Dominion Theatre ahead of our visit at the end of the month!!!

But while I jest. My adoration and love of Jason really has given me so much this year. It’s helped me take a step forward I didn’t actually realise I really needed to take. It’s brought someone truly wonderful into my life. It’s helped me make some new and very special memories. That I will treasure for my entire lifetime. I wonder what I’ll be writing this time next year. I may have peaked with the proposal last year, but there’s a few more theatre trips booked over the coming months. So, you just never know what could come next. A girl can dream. I mean, after all. Any Dream Will Do…

Learning to live with the unimaginable…

Last Tuesday, I took my daughter to see Hamilton in the West End. It was her birthday present from me, it was going to be the first theatre trip we’d done just the two of us since Mr C died. But for a variety of reasons, it ended up being the third one! And as I sat there watching it, I was struck with the overwhelming realisation of how much life has changed since 2020. The same date two years ago, I was told to prepare for my husband to never come home. I spent a week praying and hoping that the hospital was wrong. My life at that point seemed unimaginable if he was to die. The day he died my entire life and my future seemed unimaginable. But as the cast sang “It’s Quiet Uptown” and I watched them sing the lyrics “learn to live with the unimaginable,” my tears started. My daughter’s tears started. It felt too close to the mark. Because that is absolutely what we’re doing. Learning to live with the unimaginable.

When I wrote a year ago about the day my late husband died and the immediate aftermath, I actually think I was still in shock. I don’t think I appreciated it at the time, but looking back now, I think I was still in shock. I was still learning to live with and process what had happened to my family. The immediate aftermath of our entire world imploding. The country was still living under restrictions. I still hadn’t hugged so many of my friends and family. My daughter and I were, to a certain extent, still living in a protective bubble, trying to just survive. We hadn’t really had to return to our old life and adjust to life without him. This second year, we’ve had to do it. This second year has therefore been much harder.

I’ll openly admit I’ve struggled more. I look at photos of him on our wall. I watch videos of him singing. I still struggle to comprehend how someone who was so full of life just isn’t physically here anymore. And never will be. I’ve had moments where I’ve forgotten myself. Where I’ve gone to ring him. Where I’ve expected him to walk through our front door. These are the real reality check moments. That this is forever. And that he will never, ever be here again. It’s utter madness. I don’t think it will ever make any sense to me. I’ve watched my daughter transition to secondary school without him by my side. I’ve done my first parent’s evening without him. The whole time I was doing it, I was hopeful that all her teachers knew what had happened to him. I didn’t want them judging him that he wasn’t there for parent’s evening. Because without question, he would never have missed it if he had been alive. All the time, thoughts of him are ever present. I know how much it would have broken his heart if he’d have known that our daughter was going to grow up without him. I know how remarkably proud he’d be of her for how well she’s survived these last two years.

I’ve been back to the crematorium where his funeral was held for the first time. I went for his Nan’s funeral. It was without question one of the hardest things I’ve had to do over the last couple of years. To stand there and watch the same funeral director talk to the family. To watch our daughter break down during the eulogy where the loss of him was mentioned. To be around everyone who should have been at his funeral. But I did it for him. It’s still such a huge part of my life. Making sure that I do things for him. I knew he’d have wanted me to go. To represent him. To pay respects. To show support to his family. It was the right thing to do. He always believed in doing the right thing no matter how hard it might be.

I’ve spent so much of this last year making renovations to our house. I hope he approves and likes what I’ve done to it. I have no doubt that he’d be rolling his eyes at my choice of flooring for the kitchen and the conservatory, and my decision to put Jason pictures up, but let’s face it. I have to rebel a little bit! I hope more than anything I’m making him proud. I hope I’m honouring his legacy in a way he’d approve of. But the last few months have also showed me that I’m getting to a point where I need to look after me a bit more though. Where I need to stop keeping busy and just learn to sit. If he was here now, he’d tell you that I’ve never really been any good at just sitting, but I think now he’d want me to put some energy into me. Not “Charlie’s widow,” but Emma. I know I need to do that really, but in all honesty, I’m scared to. Because I don’t know if I’m really ready to stop doing things for him. It’ll make it just that bit more real that he’s really gone if I do. But in a bizarre way, stopping would also be honouring his legacy, it’s something he’d want for me. To slow down a bit.

And I’ve tried to think if there’s been a day that’s gone by where I haven’t thought about him or spoken his name. I don’t think there has been. Because I still need to. I still want to. It’s all part of me learning to live with the unimaginable. The only way I can even begin to process what has happened is to still talk about him. To still think about him. I can’t just wipe his existence from my life. I don’t want to. Yet, the periods between the gut-wrenching sobbing are longer. I don’t sob every day anymore. In fact, I don’t even cry every day anymore. But I still cry incredibly more frequently than I used to. The first time I went to see Jason Donovan and realised that Mr C would never again roll his eyes at me or wind me up about the obsession. When my sister and I went to see Ronan Keating and he sang “If Tomorrow Never Comes.” In the theatre. When a random song comes on a playlist (music is absolutely my kryptonite). When I watch my daughter do the washing up and inspect the dirty items as he used to. When friends send me pictures or videos of him that I might not have seen before. When a text message comes at a time I need it the most. I could go on. Because all these things and many, many more make me cry. I strongly suspect they always will. I’m a heck of a lot more vulnerable than I was before this happened to me.

But as time goes on, I still refuse to see myself as a victim. I still refuse to see my daughter as a victim. I don’t want to let the pain win. I don’t want to stop living. Believe me, it would be very easy to curl up in a ball and do this. It would be the easier option, because learning to live with the unimaginable is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There are no two ways about it. Even the small things hurt. I can no longer have a family organiser calendar up in my house, because the missing column is just too painful. So, when I did my calendar for 2022, I filled it with photos from 2021 to remind us that we had had good times during that year. To remind us that we survived. But in selecting these photos, there was also an element of guilt. There was an element of sadness. That we had had good times. That we had smiled. That we had laughed. That we were still able to live our lives despite what had happened to us. That he is missing out on so, so much. I can’t help but wonder if the tinge of guilt and sadness that accompanies the good times will ever fully dissipate.

Yet I think I know what he would say to me if he could. I think I know what he would have said if he’d been able to speak and say goodbye when he was in hospital. I think it would have been something along the lines of “It’s my time Em, but it’s not yours. You need to keep living. Enjoy your life. Make the most of every day. Live for the moment. Stop overthinking. Make memories with our little girl. Bring her up in the way we always wanted to. Don’t let this destroy her. Don’t let this destroy you.”

That little voice that is always at the back of mind is what has kept me going this past year. That little voice has spurred me on every single day. Yes, without question this second year has been more challenging for me. Because I’ve had to face a reality that I really didn’t want to. Because I’ve had to begin to learn how to live my life without him. Because I’ve had to acknowledge the trauma that I went through. Because I’ve had to spend so much time working on me. The cast of Hamilton sang these lines last Tuesday:

“There are moments that the words don’t reach

There’s a grace too powerful to name

We push away what we can never understand

We push away the unimaginable”

These lines are why I found that song so hard to watch. Because I’ve not been able to push away the pain. I haven’t been able to push away what I can’t really understand. I haven’t been able to push away the unimaginable. I have had to confront it head-on. My life became unimaginable two years ago. It’s why it’s been so incredibly hard for me. Because I wasn’t given a choice as to whether I learnt to live with the unimaginable. I haven’t always got it “right.” I know that. But show me anyone in my position that has. Quite simply, we all do what we have to do to survive. Because until you feel in a position to choose life and start living again, that’s what you do. Survive. One minute, one hour or one day at a time.

And that’s why as I reflect on the second anniversary of his death, I know that the next year will bring new challenges. It’s the way my life will be forever now. I am the mother of a child who lost her father aged 10. I am a young widow. I will always be both of these things. That means that whatever my future holds, I will face challenges and uncertainties that most people my age wouldn’t even have to think about. But I also know that I’ll survive them. I’ll embrace them. It’s all part of learning to live with the unimaginable. And it’s exactly what my late husband would have done if the roles had been reversed. If he had been the one left behind. It’s why we made such a good team. Because we both understood the value in living.

So, today I’ll no doubt shed some tears. And tonight I’ll raise a glass to Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. Two years gone. But never, ever forgotten. Because I will always tell his story. That I promise.

One tip run at a time…

My world as I’ve come to know it came to an abrupt stop on 10 February 2022. After a complete reality check and some brutal home truths from my counsellor during my appointment, I went to see my doctor. And was promptly signed off work…

I messaged one of my friends to tell him what had happened. His response? “Surprised it took this long…” But for me it felt bizarre. The thought of not working for more than just a few days or being a full-time mum during the day just felt alien to me. Because it’s what I’ve been doing for two years to help give me back some control. To help me try to navigate this horrendous situation I’ve found myself in.

Let me give some context. I am, quite simply, a control freak. I’m the person who goes to Florida with a laminated itinerary. I can’t tell you how happy my laminator makes me! I’m the person who goes to Florida with a folder with different sections resulting in the car hire man saying, “bet she’s fun to go on holiday with.” (And yes, Mr C did laugh just a bit too much about this comment). I’m the person who organises. I’m the person who plans months in advance. I’m the person in control.

But on 16 March 2020, that stopped. No, that isn’t when my late husband fell ill or died, but when the advice came to work from home. Because in the blink of an eye, the control and the life that I’d known for so long vanished. Over the next few days, further announcements came. Schools were to shut. The UK was being placed in lockdown. My world was shifting and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. And let’s not forget, by the time the UK was put in lockdown, my late husband was displaying signs of COVID-19 and gradually getting more and more sick. My ability to stay in control was being taken from me. There was absolutely nothing I could control about this situation. I hadn’t realised that this was going to be the way my life would feel for at least the next two years.

When he was in hospital, I wasn’t in control. I had to wait for them to ring me with updates. My life turned into just sitting by the phone waiting for news about the man I was meant to grow old with. And then he died. I pitifully began trying to claw back some control. I decided not to tell friends for hours so that they’d be able to find out when their children had gone to bed. I woke at 6:30am the next day and went downstairs to make a list of the people I needed to tell such as banks, insurances and pensions. I was trying to do anything I could to be in control. Because I simply didn’t know what else to do. I needed some sort of order in my life. I really wanted this back.

But the pandemic had other ideas for me. I don’t think any of us anticipated quite how long we’d be living under restrictions. I’d arranged house renovations, but they got halted by COVID-19. I lived with boxes in my bedroom for just over nine months because I couldn’t keep moving them to different rooms. It frustrated the hell out of me. I felt like I wasn’t in control of anything. Every time I tried to make plans to decorate, to make my house nicer or to take my daughter to the theatre, delays happened. We couldn’t see friends or family which we really needed. I couldn’t plan anything. My brain couldn’t take it. I was angry. I wanted a chance to help us adjust to our new life. I wanted to be able to have a shot at moving forward. But every single time, it got halted. And just as we got into a rhythm of me going back to the office one day a week and started talking about me doing more days post-Christmas, Omicron hit. The advice was given to work from home again. At the same time, things were changing at work, people were leaving my team (I obviously have no control over this), and it felt like everything was changing again. The stability that I’d managed to create for just a little while dissipated.

But I kept going. Until that day in February. When I finally had to acknowledge that I couldn’t keep going any longer. I couldn’t keep calm and carry on. I actually had to stop. I had to focus on me for a change. Nobody else. Just me. I’d been trying for two years to give us “normality” but when this feels like pushing water up a hill, it’s incredibly hard to do. The same friend who I’d messaged about being signed off gave me some advice, “use this time for a little mini reset, not to think “how can I use this time productively.”” He was 100% right. But actually, what he didn’t realise was how much I did need to use some of this time productively. Because to do that would help put me back in control of my life.

I have had a mini reset. I’ve stopped. I’ve not just kept going. In all honesty, I’ve probably done what I should have done when Mr C died. But it simply wasn’t possible for me to do then. The world didn’t allow it. I will always stand by my decision to start working again three weeks after his funeral, because it helped me feel a little more in control and if I hadn’t, I strongly suspect I’d have gone stir crazy. But I’ve sat and watched TV or just thought more times since February than in the last two years. I’ve spent time doing lengthy dog walks. I’ve spent time sitting at my late husband’s memorial bench. I’ve managed to do some exercise classes. I’ve spent time having coffee or lunch with friends, in my view, the best form of therapy. I’ve done some writing. I’ve shed many tears. I’ve breathed. I’ve put me first. I’ve stopped trying to do everything and be everything to everyone all the time.

Yet, I have also found it incredibly cathartic and beneficial to be productive too. I’ve put up shelves. I’ve built radiator covers. I’ve emptied Mr C’s wardrobe and sorted his clothes. I’ve sorted through cupboards and got rid of things we don’t need. I’ve been exceptionally ruthless because I have to live for today. There is no point keeping something I might need in the future because I don’t know what the future holds. I’ve got rid of glasses we were bought for our wedding nearly 17 years ago that we’d never used. Not all of them and not our wedding china, because I’m not ready for that, but anything we don’t “need” has gone. I’ve bought new furniture because we’d wanted to do this since we moved into our house nearly six years ago. I’ve been able to do things on my to-do list. I’ve smashed old furniture that we no longer need. I have done numerous trips to charity shops. I have done numerous tip runs. All of which have helped me feel more in control. For the first time in a long time, I was beginning to feel in charge of my own life again.

Until the week leading up to my belated 40th party. I spent most of that week throwing myself a pity party. You see, I’d decided the Sunday night before that I was going for self-preservation that week. I was absolutely going to do nothing and focus on me. 12 hours later, the universe had other ideas for me. A carpenter I’d had booked since April last year cancelled on me. I discovered that there had been a leak and my kitchen flooring which had only been down for six months needed to be ripped up. The floor had to dry out. Over the course of that week people pulled out of coming to my party. They were double booked, they’d tested positive for COVID-19, they weren’t well and while testing negative didn’t want to risk it, rising case numbers were worrying them… I absolutely respect all of this. I completely appreciate people’s decisions. But from a completely selfish perspective it wasn’t doing anything to help me. Once again, I started to feel out of control. Not helped by the issues in my kitchen, but mainly because I was feeling that COVID-19 was taking control away from me again and was going to ruin my third birthday in a row. I couldn’t get excited about it. I just didn’t care.

It took me until about half hour before the party started to get over this. At this point I realised that I wasn’t in control and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I would just enjoy myself and have fun with those people who were able to be there. And that’s what I did. I just stopped stressing and caring. I went with the flow. A slightly novel experience for me. But one that without question paid off. Because it was absolutely perfect. It was everything I wanted it to be (I’d been planning it since 2018 so you’d like to think this would be the case). I danced. I smiled. I had one of the biggest surprises of my life (probably deserves a blog in its own right). I just let go. I woke up the next morning feeling that my heart was full. Feeling content. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. I knew it was something that I needed to hang onto.

And I’m trying really hard to do that. I know it’s not always going to be easy. I know that for me to survive, I do need my life to be a combination of being in control and learning to just let go and go with the flow. Because I’ve come to realise that as much as I’d like to be, I simply can’t be in control all the time. Life doesn’t really work like that. Yet, for the first time since March 2020, I honestly feel like I can begin to plan again. I can start to think about my future. I can book things for us to do which (all things crossed) won’t be cancelled or rescheduled. I recently went on a night out to celebrate my birthday. The same friend who had sent me that message in February was there and the next day he sent me this message. “You looked happy. You looked like “Emma.” Carefree. Was really nice to see.”

It’s nice to get messages like that. They make me smile. Because my mind is feeling clearer. I’ve got some annual leave next week and then I’m going back to work. I’m looking forward to it. I’m feeling a world away from the start of this year. But I know that life will always throw challenges my way. I just need to make sure my mind is as strong as it can be to cope with them. And I also look around and know that there’s still things in the house that need sorting. There are still shelves that need to go up. Pictures that need to go up. There are still things that need to be got rid of. And I know that each time I do this, it will help me. I will gradually take back the right amount of control that I need. One tip run at a time…

A mother’s love…

Recently, someone shared a video in the Widowed and Young group on Facebook of an interview which Martin Lewis had done a few years ago. In it, he spoke about the death of his mother and how that had affected his life. There was one phrase that really hit me “that was the end of my childhood.” I was sat in the car park of our local Dunelm at the time of watching and it just made me sob. And made me think about my own child. It made me realise something that I’d not really thought about before. I’m the mother of a child whose childhood ended at the age of 10.

Because it really did. Yes, I’ve done my very best to keep things as “normal” for her as possible. Yes, I’ve managed to make it possible for her to keep doing a number of things she did before the death of her father. But the simple fact is, she has been exposed to the harshest of realities. She grew up, essentially, overnight. She lost a parent. One half of the team that had been keeping her safe and protecting her for 10 years disappeared. The person who had got her up every day. Her hero. She lost him. In the most surreal of times.

Of all the people who are grieving the loss of my late husband, it is my child that my heart breaks for the most. Even more so than for my own loss. Because as I look at it, I was fortunate enough to have known him since I was 15 years old. I’d been in a relationship with him since I was 18. He’d been in my life for over 20 years. I have so many memories of him. I had so many experiences with him. We’d done so much together. All that potential has been stolen from our daughter. She no longer has a future with her father. Studies have been done as to what age children start having memories from, and the general consensus is that it’s around seven years old. That means she has just three years of memories with her dad. And they’re meant to last her a lifetime. Except they won’t. Because it’s only natural that other things will come into her brain and start to replace them. Yes, she’ll remember things (I’m not saying she won’t) but if I was to sit here now and talk to you about my life between the ages of seven and 10, how much can I really remember? Not a huge amount.

I listen to her say that when she’s 20, her dad will have been dead half her lifetime. I watched her sleep in my bed for 18 months after he was rushed to ITU because she was so terrified that something was going to go happen to me too. I watched her completely struggle with Christmas last year, because the magic of it had gone (her first year of not believing) and the reality of her dad not being here at Christmas was too much for her. These little things remind me that she is actually still a child. A child in pain. But when I think back to that Martin Lewis interview, there is so much of her that I’ve seen that feels as though her childhood is over.

When she’s been sent messages that, in my opinion, should never have been sent to a child, she was the one who wanted to write the responses. She didn’t want me step in and deal with them for her. And respond she did, in the most eloquent and articulate of ways. I was so, so proud of her. But at the same time, my heart broke that tiny bit more, because I knew I hadn’t been able to stop the hurt she was feeling because of it. I knew I couldn’t make it better for her. My role as her mother is, and always will be, to protect her and try to stop heartbreak. I spoke in my blog on Mothering Sunday last year about how much of a fierce Mama Bear I’ve become. But over the last year, I’ve had to make sure I don’t unleash the Mama Bear too often, because my daughter has become more ready to take on the next battle herself. Partly this is due to her age, and the transition to secondary school, but also when your heart has been broken in the way hers has, you’re not really afraid to take on the world. You’re not really afraid of anymore hurt because, to a certain extent, it feels inconsequential compared to what you’ve gone through.

She’s also become so very much more adult like in her interactions with me. I still have to remind her on a regular basis that she is a child, and needs to do as she’s asked, but the crux of the matter is that she has had to step up these last two years. She was the only person in the house with me for such a long time after my late husband died. She has had to physically help me get up off the floor. She has watched her mother fall apart and break on more than one occasion. She has been the one to frequently see my tears and ask “why are you crying mummy, what can I do to help?” She is the one who has given me pep talks and reality checks when the going has got really tough. She has, to a certain extent, become a carer for me. Not out of choice, but because she is the only one living with me 24/7 and seeing the pain I’ve been living with. She is the one who has stepped up to do chores to get pocket money and sell her decoupage items so that she can save money to buy me presents for Mothering Sunday, Christmas and my birthday. This was pretty much dealt with for the first year, but she now feels it’s not fair on my sister or my mother to buy presents on her behalf anymore. She feels a responsibility. A responsibility to not only look after her mother, but to provide for her when needed too. All this at the age of 12. It’s no wonder that I feel that I’m a mother to a child whose childhood has ended.

I look back at my own childhood. To a certain degree, I wonder if this is what my mother felt after the breakdown of her marriage. Because I know that I had to step up then too. I helped look after my sister, so my mother was able to do things. Not least of which was doing three jobs. I don’t know the full financial implications and arrangements following my parent’s divorce, I didn’t need to at the time, I was a child after all, but I do know that my mother did three jobs so that she was able to continue to treat us. She wanted us to be able to go on holiday or to concerts (she possibly regrets that now though given my Jason Donovan and my sister’s Boyzone obsessions!!) I will always be beyond grateful to my mother for everything she sacrificed and did for us when we were growing up.

I can’t help but wonder what it must have been like for her when she had to watch her eldest child tell her child that her father was going to die. Heartbroken and helpless is all I can assume. Because I don’t think there ever really comes a time when your child is not your baby. I say to my own daughter that she’s my baby and she responds with “I’m not a baby.” No. She isn’t. But she is my baby. And she always will be. My mother would probably tell you that I’m her baby. Over the past two years, I’ve watched her try to do more and more for me. Despite me saying “I’m nearly 40 / I’m in my 40s / I can do it myself.” She felt helpless for so long because of the restrictions in place, that I suspect there’s an element that now she can help, it helps her to help me. She gets cross when I don’t wash my car, so takes it off my drive and does it for me. She’ll turn up with my stepdad when he mows the lawn to do some gardening for me. When my washing machine broke earlier this year and the repair took longer than anticipated, she did all our washing. And would regularly bring it back ironed. She’ll cook us dinner if I’ve got a particularly hectic schedule. She helps out with my daughter and our puppy so that I’m able to go to the office or have nights out. Put simply. I would not have been able to achieve or do half as much as I have without her since I became a solo parent.

And this is against a backdrop of some fractious times. It hasn’t always been plain sailing between my mother and me. There may well be other challenges in the future. But it comes back to a mother’s love and what being a mother means to you no matter what the circumstances are surrounding the relationship. My late husband hadn’t spoken to his mother for many years before he died, and neither had I, but I will still acknowledge the pain she must feel. It’s why I’ve made sure I’ve sent her copies of photos, newspaper and magazine articles, in the same way I have for his father and his sisters, because, at the end of the day, she is a mother who has lost her child. She in return has written to tell me how proud she is of her son and to thank me for all I have done to keep his memory alive and to honour him. She will always be his mother. His death won’t that change that.

I can’t begin to comprehend and don’t claim to know what it must feel like to lose your child. I realised recently that my own daughter is now the age my cousin was when she died, and I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. Because I simply can’t imagine how I’d feel if my daughter’s life ended now. It goes against the natural order of things. When you become a mother, it isn’t something that you ever contemplate. I know from my own experience that I hadn’t expected to feel the unconditional love I do for my daughter, but I also know that I hadn’t expected the constant fear and worry that goes with being a mother. There is nothing I wouldn’t do in order to protect my daughter. From anyone and anything. And the knowledge that I can’t actually protect her from everything is heartbreaking.

But I also know that because of everything she’s gone, and continues to go through, she’s growing up with a very realistic outlook on the world. And maybe that isn’t such a bad thing. I recently came across the Facebook post my late husband posted on Mothering Sunday 2019. It came after a particularly trying weekend. He said:

“You are a fantastic mother, so, if nothing else, take from today that achieving that accolade is not purely down to making your child happy. It is about teaching, guiding, encouraging and sometimes pushing your child to understand what it is to show compassion, kindness, respect and love, even if it, at times, feels like it is at the sacrifice of those things for yourself. This is why you are a great mother and why one day, you will reap the benefit of the seeds you sowed.”

I’ve had to continue to teach my daughter compassion, kindness, respect and love in a way that I know he wouldn’t have anticipated when he made that post in 2019. I’ve sacrificed so very much of myself these last two years since he came down with his temperature on Mothering Sunday 2020. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, because that is my role as a mother. But as I sit here now, I know that I can start to give a little bit of attention back to me because of the amazing person my daughter is becoming. I can’t properly articulate just how proud of her how I am. In the same way, my late husband’s mother is proud of her son. In the same way that my mother is proud of me. I have a child who makes me beyond proud. Every single day.

I know that she won’t let the death of her father beat her. When I watched the Martin Lewis interview and how he credited some of his success to the loss of his mother, I envisage in years to come hearing my daughter say something similar. She tries every single day to better herself. She has the steely determination of her father. She shows so much dedication to music, drama and theatrics, I’d put money on me one day watching her on a West End or Broadway stage. And whatever her future brings, I know that when I watch her achieve, I won’t feel the heartbreak anymore that her childhood ended so young. I’ll just feel enormous pride that the experience and hurt didn’t define her. That she used her experience to help her become the person she wanted to be. And as her mother, I won’t be able to ask for anything more.

Angels on my side

I’ve spoken a lot about the amazing support I’ve had from my friends, family and colleagues. The people who know me. It’s something that I have never, and will never, take for granted. I’m exceptionally lucky. I know that. You’ll often hear me call my friends and family angels. Or tell them in a message that they’re an angel. I’m also confident that my daughter and I have a guardian angel watching over us. But what has really taken me by surprise is the strangers who are angels and have come into my life when I least expected it but really needed them. I should have guessed that I was going to come across a lot of angels when the two women who provided a lifeline to my husband when he was in ITU were called the ‘Skype Angels’. But their impact and story deserves much more than a paragraph in this blog, one day I’ll tell it. But for now, I want to talk about what I’ve learnt about the impact that it’s possible for anyone to have on your life when you need it the most.

Oddly enough, the way I feel about this is nicely summed up by the lyrics of a Rick Astley song. And for those of you who have read previous blogs or follow me on social media, you’ll know I’m just a teeny bit of a Jason Donovan fan. So, it almost feels unfaithful to Jason to be featuring Rick Astley in a blog! But still, his song “Angels on my side” feels beyond pertinent for many reasons. If you don’t know it, it opens with the lines:

“Sometimes I just don’t feel like waking up

Wanna stay inside my dreams

Sometimes I feel like I am breaking up

Do you know just how that feels.”

I’ve felt this way. Not wanting to wake up and face the reality of my situation. Not wanting to get out of bed. I’ve felt that I’ve been breaking up. I’ve felt that no-one knows how that feels. On more than one occasion. It’s one of the reasons I joined the charity Widowed and Young (WAY). I feed off and get my strength from having people around me, so I knew that to help me survive the madness of widowhood, I was going to need to connect with people who would understand some of the emotions and feelings I was having. Who could empathise with me. Who could reassure me that I wasn’t going mad. And it’s thanks to WAY, that a very important angel came into my life as I headed to Carfest last August. Ironically enough, a festival that saw Rick Astley headline on the Saturday night.

As a family, we’d been to Carfest twice while Mr C was alive. We really enjoyed it, there is something just so freeing about dancing in a field of strangers without a care in the world. My daughter loves it and so, in 2021, I booked to go again with some exceptionally good friends of ours. I was really looking forward to it, and while I knew that it would be difficult, it was something that I felt we needed to do. Until the day before. Then the magnitude of what I was about to do hit me. It felt utterly impossible. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go back and manage this without him. I even messaged my friends to tell them that I thought it was unlikely that we were going to be able to go. I quickly received a phone call from them to talk to me about it and try to convince me it would be ok. But even my wonderful friend couldn’t do it. To the point, he left that phone call convinced that they were going without us. His view was that if he couldn’t talk me round, nobody could (he’d been able to calm me down and talk me round on numerous other occasions over the previous 18 months).

But as I’ve done repeatedly, I put an honest Instagram post out about how I was feeling. And that’s when an angel appeared. Emma, another Widowed and Young Ambassador happened to see that post and tell me she was going to Carfest. The following morning, her and I exchanged some private messages about it. She told me that she’d done it when her husband was alive and had subsequently done it without him. It gave me hope. It made me feel that if someone who had gone through a similar experience and emotions could do it, so could I. To this day, I’m utterly convinced that without these messages, I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have felt that I’d have the strength to do it. But she made me feel it was possible, no matter how hard it was going to be. It’s thanks to her that I rang our friends, told them we’d be going but still asked them to completely bear with me. They’re without question angels themselves so they understood. We agreed that I’d literally take it hour by hour. And that’s exactly what I did.

Yet on the third day, the emotions all got a bit much for me. I just felt overwhelmed. And as I stood waiting for my daughter who was in a queue for food, I listened to James Blunt sing “Goodbye My Lover.” Music is like kryptonite to me, and I couldn’t keep the emotion in any longer. I stood there and just broke. I sobbed. In the middle of a field surrounded by strangers, I just stood there sobbing. I couldn’t keep it in. A complete stranger came up to me, touched my arm and said “I don’t want to intrude, but I just felt I needed to come over and check you’re ok.” The kindness she showed humbled me. I explained what had happened and that I was just having a moment. She listened, gave my arm a reassuring squeeze and then went on her way. I’ve no idea who she was, I’ll never see her again but I know I won’t ever forget her and how that kindness made me feel. Another angel. Rick Astley closed that evening and sang “Angels on my side.” He’ll never know just how much that song resonated with me at that moment and felt unbelievably apt. But it really did.

As I look back at Carfest now, I know it was so important for my daughter and I to do it. I’m so proud of us that we did. We needed to do something we’d done as a family as a twosome. We needed to make new memories. But crucially, and despite there being over 20,000 people at Carfest, Emma and I also managed to meet and chat. As soon I started talking to her, I knew she was going to be someone that was going to continue to be in my life. We’ve continued to message and keep in touch since then. Despite only meeting her once, I absolutely consider her a friend. She was the person I turned to and messaged when I was having a wobble at the first wedding I went to after Mr C died. I know she’ll always be at the end of the phone if I need her.

And this weekend, I’ve seen her for the first time since Carfest. It honestly felt like I was meeting an old friend. But it also saw me meet other angels who I know are on my side. Who know just how it feels to be breaking up. Because this weekend, I travelled to Cardiff for the launch of the 25th Anniversary Year for Widowed and Young. Other than Emma, I’ve never physically met any of the people who were there before. Yes, there’s been Zoom calls but that’s it. I chose to wear my Mutha Hood “Fearless Female” t-shirt, but this was my way of hiding my true emotions. Because I was a little fearful of walking into that room. A friend of mine told me she thought I was exceptionally brave to be going, and while on my way, I did feel a mixture of nervousness and excitement, but I knew I didn’t need to worry really. If it was going to be like the Friday night WAY quiz I join, I knew I’d be walking into a room full of angels.

But I can’t lie. Doing this is something that is completely out of my comfort zone. For the most part of my life, walking into a room of people who are essentially strangers is not something I would ever have done. When I was younger and people would meet me for the first time, they would think I was really rude because I just couldn’t engage in conversation. I suspect I had what might be known as a resting bitch face! But it’s not that I was rude. It was just that I needed to sit and observe people before I felt comfortable enough to talk to them. To get the measure of the situation. And once I’d done this, I’d be able to talk to them. This continued for many, many years. In fact, I didn’t attend the first postnatal group I could have with my daughter because I was too apprehensive. I didn’t want to be judged for being a working mother. I didn’t want to talk to people that the only thing I’d have in common with was the fact we’d had a baby. I’ll always be so grateful for that decision though. Because a few months later I relented and went to another class. I’d started to wonder if it might be an opportunity to meet people that would end up being friends for me and my daughter. I did. I’m still very close with members of that “Baby Group.” Nearly 12 years on, we still regularly catch up. And friends I met there looked after my daughter this weekend so I’d be able to go away. More angels on my side.

And as Emma and I checked into our hotel yesterday, another WAY Ambassador was also checking in. “Are you here for the WAY event?” she asked. “Yes” was our response, and that was it. An instant connection was formed, we chatted and all walked to the event together stopping off for a chat in the grounds of Cardiff Castle, the location of the very first WAY event 25 years ago. When I walked into the event room, people I’ve seen on Zoom calls or have connected with on Twitter were all there. It felt like I’d known them forever. I breathed a sigh of relief. Once again, the angels on my side were going to come through for me. Because as odd as it might sound to someone who hasn’t experienced the power of peer support either in person, virtually or via social media, it is one of the most invaluable forms of support you will ever experience. I have regularly felt comfort, solidarity and love from people I’ve never met (and may never meet) but have connected with because of our shared experiences. I feel incredibly privileged to be able to both benefit from, and, help others. It is not something I would have ever expected when I was first widowed. For anyone who might feel nervous about reaching out or joining WAY, I’d encourage you to do so when the time is right for you. It is without a question, a lifeline for so many.

This was reinforced as I sat listening to all the speeches about how WAY was founded and the impact it has had on so many. It was both inspirational and humbling. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. Hearing how many people in the UK are eligible to benefit from the charity is simply heartbreaking. It’s estimated that close to 100,000 people in the UK have been widowed before their 51st birthday. I still find it hard to comprehend that I’m one of them. I probably always will. But chatting with people who have also gone through this, meeting people who I feel a connection with and know will continue to play a part in my life is beyond comforting. As I travelled home today, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Because despite all the tough days that I know are still ahead of me and the ongoing rollercoaster that I’m on, I know I’m going to be ok. And on those days where I might feel a bit of doubt about this, I just need to remember the chorus of that Rick Astley song:

“’Cause I got angels on my side

I got angels flying high

And everything gonna be alright

‘Cause I got angels on my side.”

Love…

Mr C and I didn’t really bother with Valentine’s Day. He used to think it was just Hallmark’s way of making money. Occasionally we might grab a takeaway or send a card, but other than that there was no fuss. But it didn’t mean that we didn’t love each other. It just meant that we didn’t need a particular day to show it. Yet this year, I’m thinking more about love and all that goes with it. What it means to me. What I’ve learnt about it throughout my grief.

Both my bereavement counsellors have asked me what I miss most about Mr C. Each time, the answer to that has been simple. Him. I just miss him. I can’t single one thing out. But for a while now, I’ve realised that I’m missing something else. For a long time after he died, I felt numb. I felt dead inside. I missed him. I missed everything about him. The person. The man, the myth, the legend. Stuart “Charlie” Charlesworth. But as I’ve started to emerge from this numbness, I’m realising that I’m missing something else too.

I first started emerging from my numbness a few months back. I know exactly when it was, although at the time, I didn’t realise quite what was happening. It was when a friend was doing me a favour. It was one of those weeks when you just can’t make diaries match and the only time we could get together was one evening. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve seen him in the daytime over the past couple of years, but never of an evening. And as we firmed up plans, I suddenly realised that this was the first time since Mr C died that I’d be having male company of an evening. Yes, I’d had evenings with friends in couples (or groups when permitted) and friends or family had been round of an evening while my daughter was still up, but in just over 18 months I hadn’t had a one-on-one evening with a man.

I can’t begin to explain how nice it was to just sit for a bit and chat over a cuppa. But as he got ready to leave, I started to feel scared. I couldn’t really comprehend why. But this feeling of knowing he was going to go home and leave me on my own just hit me. I didn’t want to be on my own. I just didn’t want to be on my own. I wanted to sit and talk to someone all night. I wanted adult company. In that split second, I realised just how much I’d missed adult company of an evening. How much I’d missed male company. Now of course, this is me. So, my brain completely overthought all of this and went from zero to 100 in a matter of milliseconds. My brain started over analysing these (perfectly normal) feelings. I barely slept. I couldn’t work out why, from what felt like nowhere, this realisation and these feelings had hit me. And so, I did what all “sensible” people who are going through times like this do, I buried it. I tried to pretend I hadn’t felt any of it. I didn’t even really talk to my counsellor about it. Because I knew to do so would be to unlock something I wasn’t quite ready to. Something I hadn’t realised I’d be needing to deal with.

But subconsciously, it’s been there ever since. I joked with a friend over Christmas as to whether I could borrow her husband once a month on a Tuesday. She laughed and queried why just a Tuesday. So, I explained. It’s the day I do an exercise class, the bins need putting out, my daughter needs help with homework, and I have to cook dinner. It would just be nice to have an adult in the house to do some of these things. To put the bins out and sort dinner while I’m out for an hour. To just take the pressure off me doing it all. Again, those feelings were sneaking up on me. I really was starting to miss something else. Something more than just Mr C as a person.

And then at the start of this year, I looked after the daughter of some very good friends. She’s my daughter’s BFF, she came round for a sleepover and they spent the following day together. Absolutely no bother at all. Yet when her dad came to pick her up, he stood on my doorstep with some flowers to say thank you. Totally unnecessary, but very lovely, nonetheless. But it completely unnerved me to see a man on my doorstep with a bunch of flowers. It threw me. I couldn’t think of the last time a man had given me flowers that weren’t linked to the death of my husband. A little gesture. But unbeknown to him, it came at a time when so much was going through my head about gestures, love, and companionship. It was another little thing that made me stop and think. Those feelings I’d been trying to bury were getting closer and closer to the surface.

And it’s funny what brings them to the surface and forces you to deal with them. Because that’s happened now. Over the past few weeks, a rather amazing friend has been helping me out by doing some decorating for me. He’s without question one of the best friends a girl could ask for. The sort of person you’d be genuinely lost without if he wasn’t in your life. The sort of friend you can have banter with, be sarcastic to and very rarely complimentary to. So much so, should he read this, he’ll no doubt pass out at me being so publicly nice about him. But it’s all true, I’m so lucky to have him and will be eternally grateful to him for his friendship and how he’s looked out for me (fairly sure this is what he told me to write if ever I mentioned him in a blog.) Told you. Our friendship is one of sarcasm.

Anyway. I digress. He was at my house the day I went to my first funeral since Mr C’s. At the same crematorium. With the same funeral director. I was absolutely done in by the time I got home. But having an adult there to talk to made the world of difference. Having an adult realise that all I really needed was a hug, helped immensely. Just having another adult in the house to talk to has been immensely helpful. It came at a time that I was missing going to the office and seeing people, so it was a godsend to have him here. There was one day that he finished early, and I went downstairs to discover his mug on the worksurface. Now, just to clarify, I don’t usually expect tradesmen to put their mugs in the dishwasher, but he doesn’t really count, and so, I sent him a message having a dig. When he was next back, I finished work and came down to find his mug in the dishwasher. It really made me smile that he’d thought to do this. I may also have moaned (ever so slightly) when on a day of calls, I rushed downstairs in a five-minute gap to make him a cuppa, only to discover that he’d already made himself one. And not me. Again. I don’t normally expect tradesmen to make me a drink. But again I, obviously, wound him up about this. In nearly two years, I think I can count on one hand the occasions when I’ve been working and someone else has made me a cuppa. So, on another day, when I was again back-to-back, he sent a text asking if I’d like a drink and brought it up to my office in my Mrs Jason Donovan mug. He subsequently did this without even asking. What more could I ask for?!

But all these examples. The thoughtfulness. The flowers. The Tuesday evening juggle. They’ve really got me thinking. Add them to the feelings that started to emerge a few months back and it’s forced me to stop and think. About what else I’m feeling and missing. It’s more than just “simply him.” It’s more than just a physical person. I’m missing a companion. I’m missing our relationship. I’m missing all the little things that go hand in hand with having someone by your side. The someone to talk to when you’ve had a long day. The thoughtfulness. The little gestures. The bringing me home a packet of Haribo because he knew how much I liked them. The unexpected bunch of flowers, just because. The person who would listen to what you were saying when they’d done something which wound you up, and try not to do it again. The teamwork. The splitting of responsibilities. Knowing someone was there no matter what. I’ve lost all of that as well as him as a person.

And that feeling I tried to bury and not deal with? The reason I didn’t want my friend to leave that evening? That feeling that I wasn’t ready to unlock a few months back? It is, quite simply, one of feeling alone. Loneliness.

I find it incredibly hard to admit to this. To be able to say out loud “I feel lonely.” Because I’m surrounded by so many amazing and wonderful people. Yet, despite them, there are no two ways about it. I’m on my own for the first time in adulthood. I’m responsible for every single decision. Nobody says goodnight to me when I go to bed. And as I’m working through my grief, feeling less deadened and devoid of emotion, I’m having to acknowledge what this feeling is and how it makes me feel. Because I can feel it now. And it’s hard. It’s painful. I also think there’s a perception that loneliness is only really associated with the older generation, but hey, isn’t that meant to be the case with widowhood too? But my reality is that I am on my own. Being lonely is a new feeling that I need to learn to adjust to and live with. I’ve entered a new phase of my grief.

I’d love nothing more than to wave a magic wand and have this feeling go away. But I actually know I need to become comfortable with it. It’s why I’m not about to go on the hunt for, or try to find, a new relationship to quell this loneliness. I’m really not. Far from it. Because it’s all part of what I need to go through to be me and understand who I am now. To be able to know and love myself again. It’s why my first new love in this next chapter of my story is writing. Because it’s helping me to work through so much. It’s helping me to love and remember who I am.

Plus, as I’ve said to my daughter, I’m acutely aware that it’ll be a tricky task finding someone who would even be willing to put up with me. And the Jason Donovan obsession. And all the baggage that I’ll come with. And there’s not exactly been a queue of men at the front door! Yet, while this may sound like a jovial discussion, it’s another one of those conversations that I sincerely wish we hadn’t had to have. We had it after watching yet another Christmas film with a dead parent (do you know how many of these there are?!) The mum in the film had started a new relationship and my daughter told me she doesn’t want that to be me. So, we had to have a chat. When I told her that I will always love her daddy, she couldn’t comprehend how this would be possible if I also love someone else. That’s incredibly hard for a child to understand. If I’m honest, I don’t really understand how it would work. But it would have to.

Because it’s how it will always be. I don’t envisage a day when I won’t love Mr C. I don’t envisage a day when I wouldn’t want to. But I’ve also come to realise that I like the feeling of companionship. Of being part of something. I miss it. And so, despite the love that I will always have for him, I’m also beginning to acknowledge that it’s possible that I may want a new relationship. I may meet someone else. I can’t 100% promise my daughter that it won’t happen. Because none of us know what the future holds. The last two years have taught me that. There is no point planning and stressing about the future. Someone very wise has been trying to get me to accept this lately, and I simply have to. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

It’s why when my daughter and I finished our chat, I reassured and promised her that if, one day, someone does come into our lives, they’re going to have to be a pretty special person. They’re going to have to be one in a million. Because they’re going to have to accept that Mr C will always, always be a part of our lives. He’s not a part of my story to be shut away, never to be spoken of again. That’s not how love and grief work. My grief and my love for him will be forever intertwined.

So, as I sit here on a day to celebrate love, no matter how lonely I am, I know that I wouldn’t want it any other way. When he first died, I remember telling people that I would never, ever have another relationship. Because I couldn’t contemplate the thought of going through this pain again. But what I’ve come to accept and realise is that I only feel the pain and loneliness I do because of love. And that makes me lucky. Because I’ve known a love so great, that my pain, grief and loneliness are also so great. They’re the price I’m paying for our love. And without a shadow of a doubt, I’ll be paying it forever. Because my love for him will never die. Whatever the future may bring.