Tag: Hope

A new hope

Various images of Emma Charlesworth and her daughter taken on 4 May over the years

Star Wars Day. May 4th. For someone who has famously never seen Star Wars, there is a certain amount of irony given how many things have happened to me on this day to make it memorable:

  • 2004 – Started my PwC career.
  • 2009 – Found out I was pregnant with our first child.
  • 2010 – Met some people who’d become incredibly important to me.
  • 2016 – Won a magnum of vodka.
  • 2024 – Held the second CharlieFest which saw my daughter sing with my late husband.

Quite a list eh? It’s weird looking back at it all now. I had no real concept of where my life was going to go. Did I envisage still being at PwC 22 years later? No, I don’t think I did. Did I envisage that I’d be solo parenting my first child? No, I definitely didn’t.

It’s why in 2026, I’m taking stock a little bit on this day. I turned 45 at the end of March and somehow, we’re now in May. I’m not entirely sure where April went. Is this a sign I’m getting old? Or just a sign that my life has been insanely busy lately? I think back to my birthday, which is also the anniversary of my late husband being taken to ICU, and realise it was almost a sign of where the next month was going to go. Numerous conversations with solicitors regarding the sale of my nan’s house. A hospital appointment with my daughter. A trip to my late husband’s memorial bench. And the innocent question from my daughter, “why are you crying Mum?” Nothing like spontaneously bursting into tears on your birthday while driving down a motorway because life gets too much for you.

And that’s how my life has been lately. A bit too much for me. I haven’t really stopped in weeks. I don’t consider myself special, so many people have chaotic, busy lives. But I do consider myself to be in an unenviable position of trying to juggle widowhood, solo parenting, working full time and caring for my grandmother against the backdrop of vaguely attempting to build a life for myself in my own right. The latter is something I’m becoming more and more acutely aware of as my daughter ages. Just last week I had to accompany her to her college enrolment. She’s thinking about learning to drive in a matter of months. And this week her main GCSEs start. It’s a pretty intense six weeks coming up.

Yet as her future starts to take shape and new beginnings happen, as a family, endings have happened. We’ve said goodbye to the house my grandparents bought in 1964. Just a £50 deposit secured that house back then. But for a multitude of reasons, it was time to sell. I underestimated just how emotional it would make me on those last few days. I’d been able to be quite productive at emptying the house, doing multiple tip and charity shop runs and managing all the administrative side of things But the penultimate day I was in the house, I burst into tears. It took me by surprise. I’m well aware that the material and physical items don’t really give you the memories but leaving the house that had been a constant throughout my life was tough. And despite material things not being the most important, I did have a smile to myself on Saturday when my grandad’s barometer showed me what the weather was going to do. I remember being fascinated by it when I was a little girl and it was one of the very few items I took from the house to keep. It doesn’t go with anything in my house, it’s incredibly old fashioned but it goes with me. It goes with my memories. It’s a part of my history.

The day the house was completed, I didn’t really have time to think about it or process it. As luck would have it, work was exceptionally busy and so I was able to distract myself. This was also the day after the sixth anniversary of my late husband’s death. There felt something poignant that the last day we owned the house as a family was his anniversary. Maybe April 19th will start to become a date for me going forwards as May 4th has been. But to be fair, my main memory of this date is no doubt enough to last me a lifetime.

I wrote on that sixth anniversary about the power of love and hope. And that is what continues to carry me through my life. I know from one of the last conversations I had with him, someone who would have been eminently proud of me for knowing that the first Star Wars film was actually called A New Hope. In a way that’s what Star Wars Day symbolises for me. A new hope.

Let’s look back to 2004. Starting at PwC was scary. I remember feeling that I needed breadcrumbs to find my way around the office in those first few days and weeks! It feeling like home and being such an important part of my life wasn’t something I really considered. There was a certain element of hope in joining the firm though. Hope that I’d find my path. But looking back now, I viewed it as work. Not necessarily a place I’d forge a career and do multiple different roles. I’m now halfway through my latest role and it’s teaching me so much. It’s been so good for me. And it’s also brought me into contact with new people. Just a couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with someone who didn’t know my story. It’s a bit weird when that happens now, I’m so used to working with people that do know what happened to me, that I almost forget that not everyone does. For so many people the pandemic feels like such a long time ago, that hearing my story can take people aback.

And another new hope happened in 2009 with that pregnancy test. Don’t get me wrong, I was incredibly scared too (flashback to 2004 and being scared at PwC). But the hope outweighed it. Hope that we were finally going to be parents after a considerable time waiting for it to happen. I remember looking in shock at that pregnancy test. When you’ve longed for something for so long, when it finally happens, it’s hard to believe it’s real. But real it was and at the start of 2010, our daughter was born. The juggle of parenting and all of life’s challenges began in earnest!

But that juggle took on a different meaning for me in 2020 when my husband fell ill and then lost his life. If I thought starting at PwC or becoming a new mum was scary, that was nothing compared to the fear I felt when my late husband died. Could I really parent our daughter without him? I like to think I’ve done an ok job over the past six years, but that juggle is ever prevalent. Take last week for example. Work was the busiest it has been for a while, I thrive on it in a way, but it meant that I was working very long hours and barely contactable. “Is this an emergency or are you just saying hello?” was how I answered the phone or started a call with my daughter if I noticed a missed call from her. Fortunately, she’s very understanding and we made it work but it didn’t mean that I didn’t feel the mum guilt.

Except it’s not just mum guilt I’ve been feeling lately. I’ve felt daughter/sister/friend/author/blogger/volunteer guilt too. The notifications mounting on my phone because I’ve needed time or headspace to deal with them all and I’ve just not had either lately. I’ve lost count of the messages or calls I’ve started with “I’m officially rubbish” because that’s how I’ve felt. The guilt that I haven’t done enough to market my book and to continue my late husband’s legacy. The worry that I should be doing more in my volunteer roles. For the avoidance of doubt, this isn’t a woe is me blog. I don’t want you to get the violins out. This is simply a real and honest blog. Because of how I’ve been feeling lately. The pressure to juggle has felt a lot. The fear of change and worry for the future and what comes next for us has been intensifying. If you’ve been one of those people thinking that I don’t seem like myself or you’ve been waiting for a reply from me, know that I really am sorry. It’s honestly not you. It’s me.

But as well as being insanely busy last week, I also had a moment of clarity. I simply cannot be all things to all people and do everything at the same time. Hope returned. Because while selling my grandparents house is inherently sad, it’s also meant we’ve been able to guarantee some stability for my nan. That in itself is freeing. Yesterday I went and visited her in the care home, safe in the knowledge that there are no battles for me to face for her for a while. We sat in the garden and made the most of the weather. My author life might have taken a hit lately, but that’s because my energy has been in my PwC life and giving that all that I have. I also said no to something a couple of years ago I’d have been adding pressure to myself to do. I spent a lot of Saturday doing some self-care. I sat in the garden and let my life pause for a little bit. No pressure. No overthinking. Just being. Yesterday I finally dealt with all those notifications and responded to people. I felt a bit more in control. I could breathe again.

I guess what I’m trying to say as I look back at my life on this day over the years is that there have been so many similar emotions. Fear. Hope. Happiness. I know that I felt all of these at CharlieFest in 2024, as I watched my daughter sing with my late husband. It was quite the moment for everyone in that room. I suspect there’ll never be a time when I’m not juggling all these emotions. Because despite all I’ve managed to achieve since I was that nervous 23-year-old in 2004, I’m still nervous. I don’t think people see it so much anymore, but I am. In a way I’m probably more fearful and scared now than I was either back then or in 2009 when I learnt I was going to be a mum. Because now a lot of what I’m doing and the decisions I’m making, I’m doing so by myself. The pressure to do the right thing and make the right decisions is magnified now. It still feels surreal despite being a widow for six years. I wonder if that will ever stop. I still wonder where we’d be had COVID-19 not entered our lives. But more than where we’d be, I wonder who I would be. That’s probably a question for another day in all honesty.

I don’t know whether today will bring anything that I’ll look back on in years to come as being of note and to add to my memorable Star Wars Day anniversaries. But I’m incredibly grateful for all this day has given me. The anniversaries I am able to celebrate. The friends I have. The person I’ve become over the years. And who knows. Maybe one day I’ll even watch A New Hope to commemorate this date. By all accounts it’s a bit of a classic.

The power of love and hope

The words Dear Charlie are written in white on a black background.

And so, we’ve completed another trip around the sun without you. Six years since that fateful day when I got the call to tell me that all hope was lost. Since we had to say goodbye to you via a Skype call. Since I begged people to help me make sure you weren’t forgotten.

Every year since then, I’ve written a blog to mark this day. I’ve tended to write them in advance so that I can tweak them as I go. Make sure I’m completely happy with them before I post. Not this year though. This year, I’ve struggled to write one. I’ve just not known what to say. And I always said I would only write when I had something to say.

I’ve been beating myself up a little bit about this over the last 48 hours. Why haven’t I been able to think of something to write to mark this day this year? It’s certainly not because I care less. I guess in a way it’s almost just snuck up on me, and I can’t actually believe we’re here again. Maybe that’s a sign I’m getting old. That time is going quicker.

Or maybe that’s a sign as to how we all grow around our grief. It’s still there, ever present but life continues around it. And I think that’s why I’ve struggled to write something before now, because life has just been so full on lately. The juggle has been beyond real. Time hasn’t really been my friend.

But yesterday, something started whirring in my brain about what I could write today. It happened in my grandparents’ house as we were doing the final clean. As I was thinking about the fact that today is the last day this house will be in our family. I couldn’t think of a more poetic day really. Tomorrow it’s gone. It’s the right thing to do but that doesn’t mean it’s hurting any less. That I didn’t stand in the lounge and cry. But I know it’s the right decision. Because it’s time.

And there you have what clicked for me. Time.

I started thinking about you and the early days of the pandemic. Listening to the then Prime Minister say, “I must level with you, the British public. Many more families are going to lose their loved ones before their time.” The heated discussion you had with someone about this statement (side note, she was right though). Your frustration at this was borne from your belief that if people died it would mean that it was their time. Your firm belief that we’ve all got our time on this earth.

You might have had this belief, but I still don’t really understand how it was your time. 45 years old just doesn’t feel right to me. And now I’m 45, I’m understanding it even less. I can’t imagine my life being extinguished and over this year. God willing, it won’t be. But there’s just no sense in how much time we have. While their house might be being sold, Nan is very much alive at the age of 95, Wednesday night’s A&E trip with her proved that. She’s probably going to outlive me to be honest. Because it’s baffling how everyone’s time is different.

I wonder what you’d be doing now if it hadn’t been your time. Where life would have taken you. How many more board games we’d be trying to find homes for. How many more Jim Shore ornaments we’d be trying to put out at Christmas. What you’d be making of having a teenage girl in the house. You’d be eminently proud of her I know that much, but teenage girls are a law unto themselves!

I wonder where life would have taken me if you were still here. I thought about this while have a cuppa and watching my WAY Widowed and Young running shirt blowing on the washing line. Don’t fall off your chair, I haven’t taken up running but was wearing it at PoundFit yesterday. I wouldn’t have known about this charity, become a Trustee and met some fabulous people. I certainly don’t think I’d have started writing in the way that I have. Funny where life can take you.

There’s so much about our life that’s still the same as it was before this fateful day six years ago. The family photos that still adorn the walls. The lounge wallpaper that you chose. The same friends. The two-hour video calls going down tangent boulevard on more than one occasion (I’m sure you can work out who with from that description). The juggle of the dance runs and rehearsal schedules. My commute to London.

There are, of course, differences too. The dog we now have (can’t help but wonder if you’d say he was a proper dog because he’s not the biggest). The Jason Donovan photos that now adorn the walls, to be honest, I still consider this to be my biggest rebellious act since you died. The house renovations I’ve made. The new people in my life. The fact that in less than two months our daughter will leave school. The fact that I am now a published author. I often wonder what you would make of it all.

Yet what I underestimated about this last point is how much this would help with this moment from six years ago today:  

I made a few more calls that night and did speak to some friends and family. I’d love to be able to tell you exactly who I spoke to, but I simply can’t. Trauma and shock were already putting me in a protective bubble. Letting me function but not really knowing what I was doing. I dread to think what I said to people. I like to hope that I came across as vaguely coherent, but I can’t swear to it. All I can really remember from each of the calls I made was begging people at the end of the phone to help me keep his memory alive. To help me help Rebekah to remember him. I just kept saying, “Please don’t let him be forgotten.”

That’s a paragraph I wrote in Is Daddy Going to Be OK?, the book I published telling our story. The reviews from people telling me that they feel like they made and lost a friend when reading it. The people who have told me that they feel like they really got to know you by reading it. Never in a million years did I expect that this would happen. I just wanted to tell our story, the real story of the pandemic and make sure you had a legacy. I didn’t really join the dots between writing a book and you never being forgotten, I thought that was something that only family and friends could help with. Because only they knew you while had your time on earth. The fact that this book has helped with people feeling like they know you is humbling. I like it. It makes me happy to think that your name is being spoken by so many people.

That’s what matters. The legacy and memories that we leave. I’ve felt this even more so recently. Emptying a house that’s been in the family for 62 years and only keeping a couple of boxes. Doesn’t mean we’ll forget any of the time that we spent in that house, or the memories that we made. But my grandparent’s material things don’t mean anything to us. That’s not what’s in our hearts.

It’s really made me think about what we do actually “need.” Six years on and I still can’t bring myself to do anything with your CDs, music was such a big part of your life after all. But do I need these to remember you? I do know the answer to this really. I’ve started sorting and getting rid of the board games, some of which didn’t even arrive until after you’d died, but the CDs I’m oddly attached to. Even though the majority of them haven’t even played since April 2020. I’ve got my “Dead Charlie Box” (nothing like being blunt is there?) which has got items in that I deem to be important, the Marvel lounge pants you were taken to hospital in, they have been washed, don’t fret. But in the years to come when our daughter has to sort through my belongings, I know it won’t be the material things she remembers about you or me. The Jason Donovan photos will no doubt be the first things to go in the bin.

Because what she will remember and hold onto will be the love. The love you gave her for those 10 years will be more important to her than the CDs. She’ll hold onto the memories we made as a family of three and then as a team of two. The time we had together. Six years ago today, I felt that all hope was lost. I couldn’t see a way forward without you. I didn’t know how to live after loss. How to make sure love would live on. The enormity and magnitude of what had happened to us was just too huge. But I think in that moment I forgot one thing. I believe in hope. It’s everything. Without it, I don’t think I’d have made it this far. And I know that once that house is officially sold tomorrow, we’ll be ok. However much it’s been stinging this weekend.

I can’t work out whether you’re eye rolling me or nodding along with me at this. Whether you’re thinking what is she blithering on about now? You should count yourself lucky that you’ve missed my perimenopausal era. The random waffle and forgetfulness that is part of my everyday now.

Yet it hasn’t made me forget you. The life we had. The memories we made.

After all this time? Always.

Day of Reflection 2026

Image of the Charlesworth Family and front cover of Is Daddy Gojng to be OK?

Today is the Department for Culture, Media and Sport COVID-19 Day of Reflection. It seems crazy to think that we are now six years on from when the pandemic first entered our world.

The Day of Reflection is an opportunity for the nation to reflect and come together to remember those that lost their lives and to honour the tireless work and acts of kindness shown by many during the pandemic.

To mark today, I’ve chosen to release an exclusive extract from my book, Is Daddy Going to be OK? on the WAY Widowed and Young website. It recalls a conversation I had the week before my late husband died. Under normal circumstances, it’s a conversation that would have happened face to face. It’s a stark reminder of how different the world was then and the difficult conversations both the NHS and those with loved ones in hospital had to have six years ago.

Today is a day for reflecting. For thinking about those we’ve lost and my thoughts are with everyone that is still living with the aftermath of the pandemic in whatever guise or has experience of what it was like to be bereaved during the pandemic and to be widowed young 💛

Goodbye 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you ready for Christmas?

Various images related to Emma Charlesworth’s family including memory bears and Christmas decorations

It’s a question we all hear time and time again at this time of year, isn’t it? Are you ready for Christmas? On paper this should be a no-brainer of an answer for me. I buy presents throughout the year when I see things which I think people would like (I realised I was turning into my mother when I started a present box in the loft), I have a spreadsheet which details who I’m giving what to, I started wrapping and writing cards in November (partly because I went into denial in the run up to the launch of my book and needed a distraction) and I’m usually Little Miss Organised.

But I guess the bigger question is this. When one of the activities you do in December is take your daughter to put flowers at her dad’s memorial bench, are you ever really ready for Christmas?

Don’t get me wrong. My daughter and I are worlds away from the utter despair we were feeling in the run up to Christmas 2020. Last night we got a Chinese takeaway for the two of us for the first time ever (she’s never really liked it, but when I said I really fancied one, said she would try it). Our fortune cookie felt quite poignant, so much so that she even she commented on its pertinence: “Do not lose heart, things will improve with the years.”

When I look back now, that first Christmas after my late husband died was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My daughter was adamant that we had to decorate the house as Daddy had always done, I personally couldn’t have cared less. We fought so much trying to sort out the boxes. It was beyond painful. Even the arrival of decorations for our trees made from some of my late husband’s ashes and a blanket and memory bear made from his Christmas attire (for the month of December, you’d seldom see him wear anything other than a Christmas jumper, t-shirt or cardigan) didn’t really make a difference. These items were lovely, don’t get me wrong, but they were just a reminder that he was no longer here.

Somehow, we made it through that first Christmas. In a way, I think it probably helped that we were under lockdown, we couldn’t see anyone other than our support bubble. I didn’t have to go into the office or attend countless Christmas events with everyone feeling jolly. It seems crazy now to think I’m about to face my sixth Christmas without my late husband. Has it got easier to manage? Yes. Do I still get a pang every year? Also, yes.  

Over the past few years, my daughter and I have done a variety of different things for Christmas. From spending the day at my mum and stepdad’s house, running away to New York to reset things a little bit to hiding away just the two of us in Christmas PJs. We haven’t cracked a magic formula for how to survive the festive period. Other than to do what works for us in that year.

Because this is our reality of being a widow, solo parent and bereaved child at Christmas. There isn’t a normal Christmas anymore. And thanks to the quintessential Christmas movies, the questions about being ready for Christmas and what we’re doing over this period, this time of year just hammers home even more that someone is missing. Especially someone who was, essentially, Mr Christmas. Every year as I get the 4,000 boxes out of the loft containing all the decorations he loved and as I put them back after Christmas, I swear and moan. You’ll often hear me saying “stupid dead husband leaving me with all the stupid Christmas boxes” as I’m passing them to my mum and stepdad. Because this is also my reality, for me to get ready for Christmas I usually enlist help from others. I can’t do it all by myself. And that’s weird.

It’s a conversation I had with a friend of mine recently, when she said that if I need any help, I only have to ask. She’s right. I am exceptionally lucky with all the help that is afforded to me but the thing I said to her that is one of the biggest struggles at this time of year is that there’s no tag teaming, no partner to do the everyday chores such as emptying the dishwasher or putting the bins out when I’m doing the various different Christmassy things that need doing. Or vice versa.

Recently my daughter had her Christmas dance show which involved a rehearsal on the Saturday and three shows on the Sunday, an entire weekend in December essentially wiped out. Now. I could say that I’m no longer going to chaperone, that I’ll drop her off, go and watch one show and give myself time at home. But the simple fact is that running her around to rehearsals, being a chaperone and being involved with the dance shows is something I’ve been doing since she was three years old, I don’t mind doing it in the slightest. The difference now is that trade off, for me to continue doing it, I can’t do other things. They slip. Because I simply can’t do everything by myself.

This trade off means for the first time since at least 2008 (it might even be longer) I’m working between Christmas and New Year. I’ve needed to take holiday to take my daughter to college open days and auditions lately which means that using another three days holiday before the end of the year almost feels like a waste. I completely acknowledge that this is a first world problem. I am, after all, fortunate to be in employment and facing this trade off. But it’s still one that I’m only really having to face because of widowhood. Her anxiety and nerves mean she wants a parent to be there with her looking around the college, dropping her off and picking up for auditions which is completely understandable. However, when you only have one parent, you have to acknowledge that there’ll be a trade off for Mum doing that as to when else she can take holiday.

Instead, I’ve taken a couple of days off this week, all with the view of taking some time for us and getting ready for Christmas. We kicked it off with a day in London with friends on Saturday, I lit a candle for my late husband at the Remember Me memorial in St Paul’s Cathedral and we had the sort of day he would have loved.

But getting ready for Christmas for me also means getting ready for life and catching up with the chores and admin. Monday saw my daughter relaxing and watching Christmas movies, so I spent many hours doing the ironing. Something I simply haven’t had a chance to do in weeks because of December doing its thing. Or December “December-ing” as I said to someone recently. I mean, I’m not going to moan about ironing while swooning over Jude Law in The Holiday but his speech about being a widower hits a little differently now. The words “it’s way too complicated to be who I really am, I’m a full-time dad, I’m a working parent, I’m a mother and a father” hit a nerve. Without fail, every Christmas since being widowed, I sit there crying when he starts this speech. While my daughter sits there eye-rolling and laughing at me, because in her opinion, it’s not sad. I completely appreciate why she says this; I don’t think I’d have found it as sad as I do now or cried six years ago, but I do now. Because it’s real for me. Widowhood is a constant trade off and battle of trying to figure out how to live your own life and be you, while still parenting and doing a lot of what you always did when there were two of you. And it’s tiring. And it’s hard.

Tonight, I’m also doing something that I would never have been doing had I not been widowed. I’m co-hosting a New Member Zoom for WAY Widowed and Young. These run every Wednesday and Saturday and the Christmas period is no different. There are zooms being held tomorrow for any members who may need that support. Because we all know that this time of year is exceptionally tough for anyone who has been bereaved.

My daughter and I had a chat about it before I volunteered to do the session tonight, I was acutely aware it’s taking place on Christmas Eve and it’s not an easy day for her either. Yet her view was that she can find things to do for a couple of hours and it’s a good thing for me to be able to offer that support to others who were feeling like we were in 2020. The empathy she has as a teenager is something you only get when your whole world has been turned upside down and you’ve gone through a life changing event. It’s both touching and heartbreaking in equal measure.

As I sit here now, if someone was to ask if I’m ready for Christmas, I can probably say that I am. The food shops have been done, the presents have been wrapped, the cards have been written, everything has been delivered that needed to be, the decorations have been put up and the out of office is on. The life-min is fairly up to date and I’m sort of feeling in control. Which isn’t a bad position to be in. Yet, there is also part of me who doubts that I’ll ever completely be 100% ready for Christmas. Because there will always be a part of my Christmas that is missing. No matter how efficient and organised I am.

Out now: Is Daddy Going to Be OK?

Various photos of Emma Charlesworth at the launch of her debut book Is Daddy Going to Be OK?

Wow. It’s taken me a few days to process what’s happened. 

I am now a published author. I held a book launch for family and friends. My book is on sale worldwide. 

And that’s why, despite being a writer, this is one the shortest blog posts I’ve ever written. Because I still don’t really have the words to explain what this means to me. They’ll come in time, I have no doubt about that. There’s so much I want to share about this whole process. 

But for now. I just want to say thank you to the following: 

  • All at Softwood Books for helping me with my vision and bringing this to life. 
  • Jemma at Click:Create Photography and Design for the beautiful and most perfect cover. 
  • Sheryl Findlay for your guidance, love, and support during our life coaching sessions while I was writing this. 
  • Everyone who has read my blogs, followed our story, and provided that virtual support.
  • Finally. My family, friends, colleagues, and all who have supported me and my daughter since 2020. There are far too many to name individually, but you know who you are.

For anyone who would like to buy a copy of Is Daddy Going to Be OK?, the links to various retailers are below:

The next chapter in my story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please sign up below, if you’d like to receive more information about Is Daddy Going to Be OK?

By subscribing, you agree to receive occasional updates about my writing and book news. Your details will be kept private and you can unsubscribe at any time.

← Back

Thank you!

Thank you for signing up, it truly means a lot to me. You’ll be among the first to hear updates about Is Daddy Going to Be OK?

To Charlie

Various pictures from Emma Charlesworth’s wedding on 10th September 2025 and CharlieFest: Dress to impress

And so, we hit another one of those milestone dates. 20 years since I became a Charlesworth. I’d not really thought about the fact I’m always going to have ‘big’ milestones in the same year before today. Getting married in 2005 and Mr C dying in 2020 means I’m forever going to have anniversaries with five and zero in them in the same year.

It seems insane to me that our wedding was 20 years ago today. I’ve been joking at work that I was a child bride. But I wasn’t. I was 24. Which admittedly does seem incredibly young now. Especially when I consider my daughter will be that age in nine years. I can’t see her getting married then.

Yet I didn’t necessarily feel that young when we got married. We’d been apart while I was at university for the three months before I dropped out. We’d already lived through my late husband’s cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment. We’d split up for a few months. We’d bought a house. We’d been together for six years (bar the three months split). We’d faced things that some couples never face. And let’s not forget, while I was 24, my late husband was 31. A far more respectable age to get married.

I’ve been thinking back to that day a lot recently. Looking back at all the photos. Wondering where the heck my tiny waist went. Wondering how so many people who were there that day are no longer with us or a part of my life. Wondering how I ended up being widowed before I even hit my 15th wedding anniversary.

Because that’s the thing isn’t it? When you’re stood at the front of the church and say the words “till death do us part,” you don’t actually think it will happen before you’re old and grey. So given the amount of grey hair I’ve acquired since 2020, now would be a far more apt time for this to happen. But putting levity aside for a second, I simply didn’t expect my marriage to be over in the eyes of the law by the time I was 39. Mr C, however, always told me that he’d never be an old man so maybe he did have a sixth sense that this might happen. Maybe this is why he lived life to the full so much and put his heart and soul into everything. Because he knew that his time on earth wouldn’t be as long as most of us expect it to be. I wish I could ask him.

There’s a lot I wish I could ask him to be honest. I’m collating a list for that day when I can finally go through it with him. He might want to go into hiding when the inevitable happens for me! But this one of the things I’ve struggled with the most since he died. Not having that person to ask when you’re doubting yourself. That person to sanity check things with. That person who is by your side and loves you through the good times and the bad. I’ve said before that I’d never been an adult without him having begun our relationship just before my 18th birthday party, and it really did feel like this when he died. How the hell was I meant to do this adulting malarkey by myself?

If I’m honest, I still don’t really know how I’m doing it. Except I’m not really doing it by myself am I? I have a wealth of support around me and in that respect, I’m incredibly lucky. The love and support that have been afforded to me and our daughter is something he would be incredibly thankful for. I think he’d have been just as surprised as me at the people who have been there for us and the people who are no longer part of our lives, but I’ve learnt that’s just a part of this grief process. You lose people along the way. They don’t know how to respond to you so it’s easier to just back off. I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy making sense of this, but the simple fact is this. I’m not the same person I was at the start of March 2020. Mrs Emma Charlesworth suddenly stopped filling in forms as “married” and had to start ticking “widowed.” How could she possibly stay the same? When something as fundamental as this happens to you, it changes you. You can’t be who you were before. You have been broken and damaged in a way that barely anyone could ever comprehend. It happened to a certain extent to Mr C when he fought cancer, it changed him. He’d been through something life changing and it made him reassess a lot.

But the wealth of support that my daughter and I have was evident at CharlieFest: Dress to Impress last weekend. The fundraising event I held to mark our 20th wedding anniversary. There was so much love in the room for Mr C as well as for my daughter and me. I knew that. The moment I stood behind the microphone and did a speech, I looked out at my family and our friends and could see it. It was particularly special to me that both our best man and matron of honour were there. The friend who did a reading at the wedding. The friend who sang at the wedding. I might not have had my husband there, but I did have people there who were an integral part of that day on 10th September 2005. That meant a heck of a lot.

I recently wrote about how this event felt more personal to me than the previous ones I’d run. It wasn’t just celebrating him; it was celebrating our marriage. And I think fittingly, it probably represented all aspects of our marriage. In the run up to it, I felt broken and teary. I felt that I was letting him down. These were emotions I’d felt at times throughout our marriage too, because of all the pressure I put on myself. Because of the real life getting in the way. There was no idyllic, happily ever after marriage for us. We had to work at it. As so many people do. There were times we both felt like giving up. Again, I felt like that in the run up to the event, I felt like giving up and cancelling it. But I didn’t. I’d love to say it was dogged determination, but the truth is, I didn’t cancel it because of our daughter. She kept faith that it would be a good event and became my glamorous assistant at getting everything done.

One of the aspects I struggled with the most was the numbers, again slightly reminiscent of our wedding when we had to chase for RSVPs! But when my daughter and I had this conversation for the umpteenth time recently, she simply said “What matters is that it’s the right people. You don’t need lots of people to have fun, just the right people who want to be there.” Saturday night proved she was right. The right people were there, and a lot of fun was had. There were nods to him throughout the entire evening, we had stars from CBeebies and our local pantomime there (which he would have loved!), his influence was felt in the music that was played, and it was simply everything it needed to be. We’ve raised money again for the Intensive Care Unit who did so much for him in the last three weeks of his life. It’s a heck of a legacy he’s left.

And as I sit here now and reflect on this anniversary, it’s very bizarre for me. Overnight I went from being one half of Mr and Mrs Charlesworth to simply being Mrs Charlesworth. Trust me. Going to his cousin’s wedding and hearing lots of people toast Mr and Mrs Charlesworth in 2022 stung a bit. Hadn’t mentally prepared myself for that one. But now I don’t really think of myself as Mrs Charlesworth. I’m Emma Charlesworth. I’m a Charlesworth and despite everything that has happened, I’m proud to be one. My daughter is a Charlesworth. Today will always be the anniversary of the day that I became a Charlesworth and started a new chapter in my life. I will always fondly look back on the opening of the anniversary pig (all the small change coins we’d saved over the year) and seeing what we’d accumulated to pay for an anniversary celebration. I will always think about our 10th wedding anniversary when the boy did good and whisked me away to Brighton to a room with rose petals on the bed and a sauna in the room. I will always remember our fourth wedding anniversary when we had our 20-week scan of our daughter. We always celebrated this day. I will always continue to remember and mark it.

But today, as is often the case with grief and time moving forwards, I haven’t made a big thing of it. Today I’ve worked. I’ve done the school runs. I’ve done the dancing runs. I’ve dropped off some Vinted parcels. My daughter and I grabbed a spot of fast food. She then treated me to a McFlurry. It’s incredibly different to the day I should have had today. I know the boy would have done good again and booked something for us.

It’s why I wanted to do something good on Saturday. It was my turn to mark the turning of another decade since 10th September 2005. The love I still have for our marriage and for him. The love I have for all those chapters of my story that we wrote together.

And as I made my speech, thanked Mr C for everything he gave to me and the friends I now have because of him, I knew I was going to raise a toast. But this wasn’t going to be a toast to Emma and Charlie as it should have been for a gathering to mark a 20th wedding anniversary. No, the toast I raised was “To Charlie.” No-one in the room realised the significance of those words when then said them. They will shortly though. And it’s why I said them again this evening. I poured myself a gin in the Dartington Crystal gin glasses I treated myself to five years ago to mark our 15th, and my first, anniversary without him. I raised two toasts. One to Mr and Mrs Charlesworth to celebrate our marriage. The other, a repeat of those two words, because without it, I’m not convinced I’d have had the strength to keep going without him. Ironic really. Throughout our relationship, I doubt either of us really realised that somehow, he was helping me to prepare and learn to do the one thing that would have felt incomprehensible. To survive, live and thrive without him. I’ll be eternally grateful and love Mr Charlesworth for that. No two ways about it.

After all this time? Always.

On my own

Various pictures of Emma Charlesworth and her family from 2005 to present.

It’s probably no surprise that the title of this blog is linked to Les Misérables. For someone who at the start of 2024 said “I don’t really feel the need to see it again,” it’s somehow become part of my life. I didn’t envisage when I made this statement that I’d be seeing it in London, Aberdeen, Manchester and Abu Dhabi. I certainly didn’t envisage that I’d be watching my daughter in the one of the lead roles. And of course. None of the songs are triggering or make me cry. Nope. Not even one. 

The local production which my daughter was in recently involved an intense two-week rehearsal schedule. The venue for these rehearsals was about a five-minute drive from where Mr C used to work. The irony was not lost on me. There was me getting up at 4:30am so that I could drive to a local train station, get an early train into work and leave the office early to pick her up. Meanwhile, my mum and stepdad had to drop her on those days so that she could get there. And then on the days I wasn’t in the office, I did both drop off and pick up. I don’t begrudge this in the slightest, I’m her mum and I knew that her anxiety wouldn’t cope with her getting the train, but it still felt like a military mission to organise. All the while knowing that if I wasn’t a widow, this wouldn’t have been the case. Mr C could have done the drop off and pick up on his way to and from work. Again. Pure conjecture and speculation because I don’t actually know where he’d be working, but the crux of the matter is this. It wouldn’t have been solely down to me to orchestrate all of the running around. 

My daughter was phenomenal. No other word for it. Even if I wasn’t a particular fan of watching her be a prostitute. Or the moment when she died, and they covered her with a sheet. Her being cast as Fantine was never going to be an easy watch! But I don’t really have the words to articulate just how proud and emotional I felt watching her. Seeing her living her best life on that stage. I could only begin to imagine just what her dad would have felt seeing her up there. And I know he was playing heavily on her mind during the performances too. There was an issue with her microphone during one of the shows that I wasn’t watching, and I got a little voice note from her saying how much she wanted a dad hug. Our everyday lives continue to be impacted by his death. Her dad wasn’t there to scoop her up at the end of that show and give her that hug. Missing him at those really important moments. 

And as well as missing him and running round like a loon, it was during this rehearsal schedule that I received my first ever speeding ticket. I knew I was running a little bit late that morning but hadn’t realised I was going fractionally over the speed limit. I completely own it. I was the one driving that morning and I must have just taken my eye off the ball for a split second. But as I sat there reading the letter that was sent out, it made me stop and think. Was this actually a metaphor for me to slow down a little bit in life more generally? 

I’ve lost count recently of how many times I’ve heard “you’re doing too much” and “I don’t know how you do it.” But as I’ve felt so often since my late husband died, I don’t really feel I have a choice. I can’t sit back and do nothing just because he died. I still have to work and commute to an office three days a week, I have bills to pay. I still have to raise our child. I still have to do the housework, finances and all that comes with being a homeowner. Yes. I could just focus on these aspects of my life but why should I? Why shouldn’t I try to forge a life and map out a future for me? 

You see, this is the other thought that is regularly crossing my mind. I’m rapidly approaching a time when I’m going to be on my own. Change is coming and I have to start thinking about my future as ‘Emma’ rather than ‘Mum’ and planning for it. My daughter starts Year 11 when she returns to school in September and will be taking GCSEs in 2026. If all goes to plan, she’ll be leaving school following this to go to college. After that, there’ll be the next phase in her life, and she’ll in theory be heading off to do a degree. And what happens to me then? If all I’ve done is work and raise her, what do I then do in 2028? Both of these would be a heck of an achievement in themselves given all we’ve been through; I don’t deny that; but I can’t help but feel I need to future proof my life too. 

Granted. When it comes to futureproofing, there might have been an easier and less demanding way to do this. But I have to do it in a way that works for me and by doing something I’m passionate about. I was absolutely honoured to have been appointed as a Trustee for Widowed and Young in July and I’m looking forward to seeing what I can achieve in this role. In December 2023 I said I was going to write a book and that has now been written. I have been working with the team at Softwood Books to bring this to life and I’m excited to see what this brings. But both of these require my time and energy. Which is why I can see why people tell me I’m doing too much. In a way I no doubt am. But it’s easy to say that when you haven’t been through what I have. When you haven’t had your future completely decimated. 

Becoming a widow at the age of 39 wasn’t on the future plan when I was growing up. And that’s why I push myself. I’ve had one future ripped away from me. I can’t bear the thought of not having a new one to look forward to. For such a long time, the future was overwhelming. It scared me to look beyond the next day. But now I have to think about it. Because as my daughter starts to enter the next phase of her life, she’ll no longer need me in the same way she has. And then what becomes of me? It’s a thought that crosses my mind on such a regular basis. What happens to me? Empty nest syndrome is such a common feeling for millions of people but for me it’s going to hit that little bit differently. I really will be on my own when that happens. 

Because I’ve recently been thinking about whether she and I are too co-dependent on each other. The circumstances regarding our bereavement no doubt forced us to be. In the first year after Mr C died, she was only in school for four months. No-one stepped foot inside our house for nearly three months after he died and even then, it was very minimal. I didn’t have to commute to London. We didn’t really have to navigate a social life. We became quite insular. It did pretty much feel like it was Team Charlesworth against the world. I think the two of us supported each other and held each other up in ways that we didn’t even realise we were doing. She became my sole reason for getting out of bed each day. I became her one constant in life. We’d both lost our other one constant, it was instinctive to cling to the one remaining. 

I guess I’ve found myself being a lot more reflective this August than I normally would be. I hadn’t really realised why until I broke a little bit at work last week. I was feeling the strain of being a solo parent. Of juggling so much. Of not having that one person who could step in to pick up the slack when needed. For the first time in a very long time, I felt like a widow. That might sound daft given I’ve been living this life for five years now, but when you’re just living your life and you’ve become accustomed to living with grief every day, you sometimes forget to give yourself a little bit of kindness. Of remembering the magnitude of everything you’ve gone through and what’s led you to where you are in your life. I was so lucky that a colleague accompanied me for a walk to help me clear my head but when I said to her “what would have been my 20th wedding anniversary is fast approaching,” I heard my voice crack. 

I haven’t really thought about just how significant this wedding anniversary was going to be. For the past few years, I’ve referred to the date as the anniversary of the day I became a Charlesworth. I’ve found it hard to refer to it as a wedding anniversary as I no longer feel married. I was. There is no denying it. I don’t want to. But I’m not married now. Every widow is different, but for me, I’m not married. I’m on my own. I’m widowed. Just writing that is hard. I battled with the phrase widow for a very long time. Now it’s a part of my identity. 

This time 20 years ago I was just over two weeks away from getting married. While I didn’t know exactly what the future was going to look like, I had a pretty good idea. I never envisaged my husband dying in a global pandemic just over 14 years later. That being a widow would become a part of my identity. The Friday of the August Bank Holiday weekend in 2005 saw the start of my hen weekend celebrations. A night out in Maidstone before heading to Bournemouth for the rest of the weekend. Full of hope. Full of plans. Some realised. Others not. 

I knew quite early on that I’d need to mark this anniversary. And so, I chose to think of a way to celebrate his life. To celebrate the marriage I did have. CharlieFest: Dress to Impress is how I decided to do that. To once again raise funds for the Intensive Care Unit at Medway Maritime Hospital. The unit who worked so tirelessly to care for him in the last three weeks of his life. Oh yes, did I forget to mention that I’m planning an event as well as working full time, becoming a Trustee and publishing a book? And I wonder why people tell me I do too much. 

If I’m honest. This event has become like a second full time job. Even more so than the previous two I’ve held. Everything about this year has felt harder. The cost of living. The ticket sales. The raffle ticket sales. People not seeing my social media posts because of the algorithm. The posts in local Facebook groups which are left as pending. The organisation of it and unexpected changes. All of which take their toll. Those nagging thoughts that plague me have become a bit more prevalent over the past few weeks. Do people care less about what happened to us now? Are people sitting there thinking “dear god, is she still banging on about her dead husband?” I think back to the previous ones I’ve held and wonder if I asked for help more or if people offered their help more freely? Probably a combination of the two in all honesty. Lives move on. People are busy. With all I have going on, I just have to get things done when I can. And if I’m honest, there is something about this event that I feel even more responsible for. It feels even more personal. It’s not just a fundraising event in memory of my late husband. It’s also in memory of our marriage and everything we had. 

I look at the current confirmed attendee list. It’s a very different list to the guest list for our wedding. People attending who never even met him. People not attending who were a huge part of his life and our married life. A sign of how times change. How lives move on. Again. I’ve wondered what the invite list would have looked like had we been hosting a 20th wedding anniversary party together. I’ll never know, but this is a prime example of something that affects me as a widow, and me alone. It comes back to that sentiment of being on my own. In so many ways, I am with my grief. I don’t for one second underestimate the impact of my late husband’s death on others, but how many other people are still having their day to day lives and routines impacted by it? How many others live with so many pertinent dates and reminders that only affect them? Who else said the words “til death do us part” only to have that become a reality far sooner than it should have been?

Yet as I have so many times since 2020, I can’t let myself dwell on thoughts like this. They don’t do me any favours. I had my moment last week. I didn’t ignore it or try to battle through it. I gave myself permission to feel how I was feeling. I joined a virtual Widowed and Young meeting to just vent with others who get it. It’s the first time for a while I’ve done that, be a member, be a widow and admit that this life is crap at times. I don’t have a bad life by any stretch of the imagination, but it is hard. And I knew that once I’d said out loud how I was feeling, I’d feel better. That’s exactly what happened. 

So, for now, I’m going to focus on the positives. I’m going to look for the little glimmers. The memories of my hen do this weekend 20 years ago. The memories of my marriage. All we achieved during those 14 years. 

The greatest achievement of all being our daughter. When I’ve had my moments questioning myself lately, she’s been the one to rationalise and talk sense into me. The one reminding me to focus on what we will achieve in two weeks to celebrate him and all that we had. All the donations made in his memory and the amount of money we’ve raised to help others in the last five years. 

But above all else. She is the best reminder I have of the future. Because whatever my future entails, whatever I chose to do with it, however I choose to manage being on my own, the parenting and love we both gave her; and I’ve continued to do; has led her to the point of being able to plan her future and what comes next. She has so many exciting tomorrows ahead of her. And I hope I do too. As she herself sang in Les Misérables the other week: 

“It is the future that they bring when tomorrow comes.”

 

Talk you down

Various pictures of Emma Charlesworth taken during the Jason Donovan Doin’ Fine 2025 Tour

It’s been a couple of years since I wrote a blog to mark Jason Donovan’s birthday (although, apparently, it’s more importantly Tom Holland’s birthday before my daughter moans at me!) But 2025 has been a bit of a special year. So, I couldn’t let today go without writing something.

You see, 2025 saw the Doin’ Fine 25 Tour take place. I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but I ended up with six dates between February and March. My daughter on multiple occasions would simply look at me and say “excessive.” It became a running joke at work as to what I was doing of an evening or weekend. I even had a message from someone who follows me on Instagram asking if I do PR for Jason because of my posts. I mean, I don’t but if there’s an opening for this position I’ll happily apply!

But what most people didn’t realise was just how much I needed this tour during this time this year. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t realised it until it came to it. In my head I was just doing the dates in those three months because it just so happened that those were the ones I’d booked. I hadn’t quite thought about how the impact those three months would been having on me.

From late February onwards, the five-year anniversary of the pandemic, my late husband falling ill and dying just felt like they were hanging over me. I became acutely aware of the dates in a way that I hadn’t really been since 2021. Don’t get me wrong, I know all the important and pertinent dates like the back of my hand, but there was just something about this year which felt like a milestone. A real marker in the sand. I turned the calendar over to March and it was almost as though my body knew. One week it manifested itself in sheer and utter exhaustion. I fell asleep on the train home from the office. I was asleep on the sofa by 8:30pm. I wasn’t really able to concentrate on anything. My patience was thinner than normal. My temper was shorter than normal.

It almost felt in a way that I was leading a double life. The weekends and evenings at the Jason concerts when I could live a life where I didn’t have a care in the world and was transported back to my seven-year-old self when I first decreed that I was going to marry Jason when I grew up. The rest of the time I was that young, widowed, working mother of one who was juggling the enormity of all that had happened to her against the backdrop of her daily life. But I guess that is my life to some extent. It’s the reality of grief. You will grieve forever. You will never get over it. But you do learn to live with it. You do learn to have it as part of your daily life. Most of the time I’ve become quite adept at living with my grief but sometimes it just takes hold and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

But this tour. This tour. I don’t even really know where to begin. Except I do really. I begin with that random woman from Twitter. That random woman who in 2021 was so very kind to me and meant that we finally met in person after years of fangirling over that Australian on Twitter. I still remember walking into that pub to meet her and wondering just what the heck we’d find to talk about. Or whether it would be the most awkward meeting ever. I needn’t have worried though for she and I clicked instantly. I knew she was my sort of person even though in so many ways we are the complete opposite of each other. It’s the biggest juxtaposition really. I genuinely believe I’d never have met her had my late husband not died. I wouldn’t have her as a friend yet I’m so sad that he never met her. I can’t help but wonder at times if he sent her to me. Admittedly, the drunken video calls I receive when she’s singing Too Many Broken Hearts might have elicited a few eye rolls but even so.

This tour was the first time we’ve done multiple dates on a tour together. Up until this point we’ve done theatre shows and one-off gigs but never a tour. Our excessiveness started off with an intimate gig in Bishops Stortford (oh how we amused ourselves on the group chat about getting intimate with Jason!) but it was such a fab evening. Although. The North-South divide was very apparent when she moaned on the train about people being rude in London and then proceeded to talk to other poor commuters who just wanted a quiet journey and to go home. But this was our first insight into the fun the two of us have going to concerts together. Oh, how we laughed. Oh, how we danced. Oh, how we fan-girled over Sophie (his singer). The set-list just hit the mark. I wasn’t expecting a Cliff Richard song to be included or to be video calling my mum (as I went on to do every time I saw him sing this apart from the night she was there too!) But there was one little song that I don’t think anyone had been expecting him to include. A lot of the audience may not have even heard of this song, but it’s one called Talk You Down. It quickly became our song. The lyrics are just so pertinent about no judgement, how there isn’t a right and wrong, but that no matter what happens, the person will be there to Talk You Down. And that’s exactly what we do for each other. As well as all the good times, there’s been tough ones too. We’ve cried on each other. And we’ve got each other’s backs.

I mentioned in my previous blog about my mental health and how I knew when I was back to being me. And it was on 3 March in a bar near the London Palladium. It was our second night on the tour, and we (obviously!) went for a Bottomless Brunch first. Except it wasn’t really a brunch. As it was at dinner time. Honestly. But as she used the words “cool” and “mint” to describe how I looked that evening, I looked at the photo and I saw it. The sparkle was back. Despite being at the start of the month that was to prove so very difficult for me, I could see it. I was back to looking as I had in that photo I’d taken seven months earlier when we’d been away to see Jason in Derby. It really does feel at times that everything always comes back to Jason.

And just a few days later my long-suffering sister and I headed to York. With the group WhatsApp messages printed ready to be signed. The WhatsApp messages that said she really couldn’t do a Meet and Greet. That she couldn’t justify it. Swiftly followed by messages saying they had accidentally been bought… But travelling up north seems to never be without drama and as we were diverted off the A1 into Kansas (or at least that’s what it felt like, we were completely anticipating ending up in Oz) our journey once again turned into about a nine day one. But we made it. Eventually.

The following day I was a geek walking round York taking in the sights and the history. Our table for brunch said “Bottomless Hotties.” We found Paddington. We had such a lovely day. And as we arrived at the Barbican, my nerves kicked in. Randomly. I realised I hadn’t spoken to Jason since October 2022 at the stage door at Grease. I panicked as to what I would say to him. 43 years old and suddenly behaving like that seven-year-old again! But I needn’t have worried. I got my hug. I got things signed. I had a lovely chat. And within seconds my Facebook profile photo was updated. Without so much as a second thought. A far cry from all the agonising over doing this I’d faced in 2021. While I’m not convinced time heals, it does make a difference. And that’s all you can really ask for.

Two weeks later came the next date. Liverpool. Quite possibly my favourite date of the whole tour. But this was a date that in the week leading up to had felt a little uncertain. My daughter had been unwell. My mum had had an operation cancelled after she too fell ill. The solo parent guilt kicked in. I just didn’t know if I could go away. Whether it was the right thing to do. This is the constant juggle I face. The guilt when I do things for me because I’m the only parent my daughter has. The buck stops with me. But after talking with friends and my daughter, I was convinced to go.

And I’m so incredibly glad I did. It was just a perfect weekend. The sort of weekend that money can’t buy. I wasn’t nervous in the queue to meet him this time. But I’d never have expected that when we did go in to meet him that I’d have ended up saying something a tad inappropriate that meant I got “Emmaaaaaaa” shouted at me! But the photos that were taken just sum it up. They might not be the best photos. They might be slightly blurry. But my word do they show how much fun we were having. I’m so thankful to Tasmin, Jason’s tour manager who captured them for us. Epitome of happiness right there.

No-one watching me that weekend would have actually known that at the back of my mind was the date. 22 March. That it was five years since my late husband first noticed he had a temperature. Since he made his final ever Facebook post. I was so conscious of it. But again. Being away and seeing Jason gave me something else to focus on. The double life coming into its own really. I thought back to the exact day in 2020. The final day before lockdown was announced. When the thought of being away with friends and going to a concert would have seemed impossible. Fast forward to 2025 and it was a completely different story, it felt somewhat pertinent that the venue for this concert was on Hope Street. After all. Hope is everything. It’s the one word that has got me through the last five years.

I only had a matter of days before my next date. In Canterbury, two days before my birthday. I knew he was performing on my birthday itself, but I had no intention of going. I’d have had to be away for the night and my daughter simply didn’t want me to not be at home given not only was it my birthday, but it was also Mother’s Day and the five-year anniversary of my late husband being taken into ITU. Sometimes things are just important than Jason. Controversial I know. I took non-Jason fans with me (after all, I need to introduce as many people as possible to him!) and finally got the setlist I’d wanted given to me from the stage at the end of the night. This was my last UK date. Yes. You may get the violins out.

But I still had one date left to do, the one in Dublin the following weekend. Again. This date was because of that incredibly kind northerner who knew I’d always wanted to go to Dublin. It also became a birthday weekend for her stepmum as well. And while it’s safe to say this is the furthest I’d ever travelled to see Jason, again, what a weekend! My sister set off bright and early for our flight. My sister, the Jason superfan, that is. Ever since a photo had been posted on X (or Twitter if you’re old school) after the York date of the three of us standing up and someone commenting on the energy of these three fans, it became a running joke that she was a superfan. It’s not something I’ll ever tire of! We had such a fun first day. We convinced Dave the Taxi Driver to play Jason as he took us into Temple Bar. He got such a candid photo of us when we got out of the taxi. We danced in the street. I tried Guinness for the first time and loved it.

The following day we did an Afternoon Tea Bus around Dublin and learnt some fascinating facts about doors. And I saw a green postbox. What can I say? Once a geek, always a geek, right?  We had another fab day in Dublin and as we headed back to our apartment, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad. Not only was this the last night of seeing Jason, but that northerner had a Meet and Greet ticket and I didn’t. It just didn’t feel right. I’d love to be able to say that I hadn’t moaned, made numerous digs about this or made my sister’s life a misery but I can’t quite do that. Because I’d done all of this.

As the northerner headed off, I sat and sulked, made myself a cuppa and ate some onion rings. What I was unprepared for was the call that came shortly afterwards. “How quickly can you get here?” were her opening words. I swore quite vociferously at her. I can now confirm that when there is a Jason Meet and Greet ticket available, I can take a call, get changed, chuck make up in a bag, order an Uber and get down to reception from the 16th floor of an apartment in eight minutes. Eight minutes. No wonder my adopted northern mum has coined the nickname Road Runner for me! But I didn’t give it a second thought. I just went. And would now like to make a public apology for doing this after all the moaning I’d done up until this point. It’s only fair really. I was a bit of a nightmare. But I didn’t really have a chance to think about this Meet and Greet as I had with the other two. I just had to wing it. I got the most unexpected hug from Jason ever. It felt like the perfect way to end the Doin’ Fine 25 Tour.

But as I look back and think about this tour, I’ve realised so very much. That little seven-year-old who decreed she was going to marry Jason Donovan would never have envisaged quite what being a fan of his would bring to her world 30-something years later. The other Jason fans that she gets to talk to and who have been there for her across the highs and lows of the last five years. The Meet and Greets which were almost a metaphor for how she’s dealt with her life during the last five years. The nervousness, the inappropriateness and the winging it. She’s done all of it since her late husband fell ill. The adopted family that she now has because of Jason. The adventures and trips she’s gone on. The smiles and laughs she’s had. The sheer enjoyment she still gets from being a fan and being transported back to the 1980s when she sees him.

People joke that most people grew out of being a Jason fan in the early 90s. I didn’t. And I don’t think I ever will. Because without him I wouldn’t have as much as I do in my life. So much that I’m so very grateful for.

The Beatles sang “Money can’t buy me love.” Jason covered it during this tour. They’re right. Money can’t buy you love. But it can buy you concert tickets and help you make amazing memories. And that’s pretty much the same thing.