Tag: Identity

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.”

 

Finding your WAY

Various photos from the Widowed and Young AGM 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

Who am I?

The $64 million question. When I first started this blog, I said that it was a journey of me finding Emma. But in all truthfulness, that journey has taken a bit of a dip these last few months. I’ve spoken a little bit before about the loss of identity I’ve felt since being widowed, but it’s really come to the forefront lately. So many times, I’ve said “I just don’t know who I am anymore.” It’s something that friends of mine struggle to understand. And I can see why.

Because on the surface, it seems odd. I’ve always been Emma. I was Emma before I met Mr C., I was Emma during our relationship. I’m Emma now. And that’s true. But I’ve lost a massive part of me. I’ve lost the Emma who was part of a couple. I’ve lost the Emma who was part of Emma and Charlie (or Stuart and Emma depending on your perspective.)

The two pictures I’ve selected to accompany this blog I’ve done so for a reason. The one on the left is the last ever picture of us on Christmas Day. I looked at it in the run up to Christmas last year and didn’t recognise the people in it. The one on the right is the penultimate selfie of us taken a month before he fell ill. It’s what I chose for November on my desk calendar. I’ve been looking at it every day this month. And I don’t recognise myself in it. It doesn’t look like me. I struggle to understand why. But I simply think it’s because I don’t believe the person in either of these photos exists anymore.

Being shallow, you could easily put it down to a change in hair colour and growing my hair ever so slightly. You see I’ve always had dark hair. Never in a million years would I have considered blonde highlights. But in August last year, I needed to do something to try to hide the grey hairs! Or so I thought. But looking back now, I think I needed to do something completely different with the way I looked. To try to find a new identity to help with what I was going through. I’m so glad I did it. But, interestingly enough, when I had to dye my hair dark ahead of the highlights being refreshed this August, I looked at myself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the person looking back at me. It just so happened this took place the day before I was due to go the Palladium to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and chance my luck at the stage door for a certain Mr Donovan. You would not believe how much I stressed over not looking like me on the train to London. How I positioned my sunglasses on my head to try to hide the fact I had dark hair again. I was fortunate enough to have a conversation with Jason that day, my sister got the most amazing picture but when I first looked at it, all I could think was “does that even look like me?” No-one else noticed, they all told me what a great pic it was, but I still couldn’t help thinking about the person in that picture.

Because on the surface I am still very much the same person I’ve always been. I do know that. But what’s different is what’s on the inside. What’s different is the way that I feel. The way my life is now defined by “before” and “after” the death of my husband. What’s different is the insecurities I now have. Ultimately that’s what’s changed. Not the way I look. Not the way I dress. But the way that I feel. I admitted to a friend yesterday that I’m scared of being judged by people now. For how I’m grieving. For decisions I’ve made. But also, for my friendships. I’ve always had close and strong relationships with men, Mr C always accepted that and never had a problem with it. But now I constantly wonder whether people are judging me for it. I know this comes from my own insecurity about who I am, but it’s because I’ve never had to deal with it before. It’s new. Aside from a three-month break in 2003, I’d never been a single adult until last year. Navigating life as one on top of the grief is complicated. Because I don’t know how I’m meant to behave. I don’t want to change who I am because of societal norms and expectations, but I’ve considered whether I should.

It’s just another example of why I look back on a person from two years ago who now feels so very different. The person from two years ago who now feels like someone I used to know. Not me. That Emma can’t have been me. There’s so much about her that I miss.

I miss the Emma who used to be able to run at a 100 miles per hour constantly (figuratively speaking you understand). I miss the Emma who used to be able to juggle 1,000 things in her head without the need to make to do lists to even remember the simplest of tasks. I miss the Emma who felt confident at work and good at her job. I miss the Emma who used to host parties. I miss the Emma who could go to a wedding and not have a panic attack during the Father of the Bride speech because she doesn’t know who’ll give her daughter away if she gets married. I miss the Emma who felt safe and secure. I miss the Emma who didn’t sleep with her phone by her bed every night in case something terrible happens in the middle of the night. I miss the Emma who didn’t spend so much of her life on the verge of tears knowing that even the smallest of things can make her cry. I miss the Emma who didn’t automatically assume the worst was going to happen in every single situation she faced. I miss the Emma who used to have a bit of fight in her. I miss her most of her all.

I’ll type a message to family members about how much my daughter needs them right now knowing that I’ll never send it. Because of what’s previously happened when the protective mama bear kicked in and I stood up for her. Because of the unsubstantiated accusations levelled at me since he died. I have no fight left. And this pains me beyond all belief. Yes, for my daughter and what she is going through, but also for me. Because it’s not who I was before my husband died. I would fight for what I believed was right. I would do everything I could to make things right. I would do everything I could to make things better for our daughter. But now I’ll simply walk away. Because anything that takes additional effort and fight, I can’t do. I don’t have the energy in the way I once did. Because it takes everything I have just to get out of bed and keep going every single day. That is the hardest part of being Emma now. Getting through every day is a fight.

Now. That’s not to go all woe is me and make out that I’ve not had any enjoyment since my husband fell ill. To do that would be lying. We’ve now got a puppy. I have the most amazing people around me. I’ve been shopping. I’ve been to the cinema. I’ve been on days out with my daughter. I’ve been on meals with friends. I’ve had days in the office that energise me. I’ve been to theatres. I’ve been to gigs. I’ve been to a festival. I’ve had nights away. I’ve had a marriage proposal from Jason Donovan (more on that WILL follow in the future). But each of them is tinged with sadness. The changes that were made at Carfest that saw me think “I must ring Charlie and tell him about them.” Coming home to an empty house after a fabulous time in Brighton and having no-one to talk to about it because my daughter was away. Watching my daughter grow up and experience things knowing what both she and he are missing out on. The number of tears I’ve shed in theatres because everything feels like a trigger. All of which take it out of me. And quite frankly, are exhausting. I often wonder when the time will come that this will lessen. I suspect it’s a while off.

Yet, I do know there’s hope. I know there are glimpses of the old me coming back. Recently after a night out, a friend went home and told her husband “I’ve seen Emma tonight” because she felt that it was the first time she’d seen “Emma” in 18 months. I’ve had another friend say she’s starting to see the old me in photos I’ve shared. But this is where it gets interesting. Because as much as I miss the old Emma and who she was, I’m also a fan of the new one. I feel grateful that she is now a part of my life. The Emma who can write. The Emma who can take photos. The Emma who can actually cook a meal and not give anyone food poisoning. The Emma who can put shelves up. The Emma who has become a dab hand at building flatpack furniture. The Emma who is far more sensitive but who has opened up, let people in more and is now closer than ever to friends and family. The Emma who is gaining strength and friendship from strangers who she has a commonality of experience with. The Emma who has astonished me every single day by how she has kept going.

So, who am I? I still don’t actually know. If you asked me to do an elevator pitch to answer that question, I don’t think I could. Because so much of my identity came from my life with my husband. He helped shape the person I became. He was a massive part of my identity. Without him, I’ve lost that part of my identity. It will never be possible to gain that back. And while finding Emma is one of the scariest things I’ve ever had to do, I do know that one day in the future I will find her. I will know who she is again. And I already know she’s going to be somebody who in so many ways is the same person she’s always been. But she’s also going to be somebody who is stronger. Kinder. More thankful. More vulnerable. And that’s probably not a bad thing.