Tag: Parenting

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.

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.”

 

It’s okay not to be okay

Various images of Emma Charlesworth and quotes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happily ever after?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In sickness and in health

November has been a month that I wasn’t really anticipating for Team Charlesworth. I mean, I knew that November was going to happen, but in my military mission planning, I hadn’t anticipated that both of us would be pretty much wiped out by illness. Both of us for the first time since Mr C died.

I’ve written before about how to help me manage work, childcare, dog-care and simply live my life, I plan like I’ve never planned before. And this from the woman who laminates holiday itineraries! But it’s something I have to do now; spontaneity isn’t really a word that is part of my vocabulary since being widowed. There are times that I think it would just be nice to be able to do something without having to plan it weeks or months in advance, but I’ve sort of made peace with it now. This is how my life is and generally speaking, we’ve got in a good routine. Family and friends are brilliant when it comes to helping with Miss C and I have the most amazing doggy home boarder. We’ve got this.

But on 3 November, this routine and control came crashing down. I woke up after a dreadful night and just felt so, so ill. A quick inspection of my throat, on the advice of my sister, revealed white spots at the back of my throat and on my tonsils. I felt like my throat was full of razor blades. I felt exhausted. I did something that I couldn’t tell you the last time I’d done for reasons other than my mental health. I called in sick. I knew that I simply couldn’t work. But, despite feeling so awful, I then did the school run. Because I had no option. I couldn’t simply go back to bed and get Mr C to do it. A few hours later I managed to speak to a doctor and was given a prescription for antibiotics. I rang my mum in tears because I just didn’t think I could drive to pick them up. She got this for me and brought it round. Other than that, I didn’t make it out of bed. I just had no strength to move. Until 3pm, when I went and did the school run.

It might sound silly, but part of me needed to do that school run. I needed to show my daughter that I was still able to function and do a certain number of “normal” things. The last time there was real illness in our house aside from the odd migraine or minor colds was when Mr C fell ill. I don’t ever want her panicking and worrying about me. But more than that. To organise someone else to do it took energy. There is no husband to step in and help me now. If I messaged someone and they couldn’t do it, I’d have to message someone else. And if they couldn’t do it, someone else. I merely didn’t have the headspace to organise this. The organiser was down. So, it became easier to do it myself.

Over the course of that weekend, I barely moved off the sofa. Except do the dancing run and pick up a parcel from Asda. Doing so resulted in me sleeping for three hours because I’d worn myself out. I slept an inordinate amount that weekend. I just couldn’t do anything. It felt like my entire body was being attacked. It felt like my body had simply said “you will stop.” But. I still have a child and a dog. I’m fortunate that my dog is fairly lazy and didn’t object to not being walked for days. But it’s not that easy with a child. She still needed looking after, she still needed feeding and all the things I’d usually do. But I couldn’t do it. She was amazing. She cared for me. She cooked all the meals. She put the shopping away when it was delivered. She sat and did her homework while I slept. Granted, I did query why she can’t do this when I’m not ill! But there was no alternative. In the same way she stepped in and cared for me when I fell apart when Mr C died, she was having to do it all again. This is the part of childhood bereavement that I think gets forgotten. In circumstances such as ours, children end up caring for adults. They take on a huge burden of responsibility. Because there is no-one else in the house to do it.

All of this made me feel exceptionally vulnerable. It reignited those feelings I’d had in the summer when I ended up in minor injuries with a head injury. Because while I’m not alone, it just reminded me that I am, on my own. And there is no obvious person to step in and help any more. I didn’t ask for this. Yet here I am, living and dealing with it. The feeling of vulnerability is always there, but sometimes it becomes all consuming. Being ill was another example of that.

It took me a good couple of weeks to feel human and feel like myself again. I knew that I had to listen to my body and not do too much. I was too scared of relapsing. But what I hadn’t known about tonsillitis until now was that it completely drains you, as well as giving you a sore throat. I couldn’t go to the office for a week because I had no energy. I had to go to bed early. I just had to rest and look after me.

And then. Just as I thought we were back on an even keel; Miss C fell ill last weekend. That military mission planning was really being tested. In the early hours of Monday morning, I awoke to her being sick. All over my bedroom carpet. Absolutely not her fault, illness is what it is, but it needed dealing with. But in a horrible reminder of the night Mr C went to ICU, I was once again torn. I knew she needed me to be with her and needed cuddles, but I also knew I had to clear up because to leave it until the morning would just make it worse. Once again, just as she was on 30 March 2020, she had to be on her own for a little bit. It was triggering for me. The guilt I feel towards her about being on her own when our entire world was collapsing is something that I don’t think will ever leave me.

But just a few hours later, the alarm went off for me to get up for work. I was knackered. Fortunately, I was working from home, but I was juggling a sick child and work for the first time. That vulnerability and feeling of being on my own kicked in again. There was no trade off. There was no-one for me to say to “can you sit with her today while I work, and then I’ll do it tomorrow?” I was juggling it all on my own. My mum and stepdad took over for me on Wednesday so that I was able to go into the office, but I’ve not been able to go in as much as I’d planned to this week. The military planning hasn’t worked this week. Because, at the end of the day, what my daughter wants and needs when she’s ill is a parent. There’s nothing quite like a hug from your parent when you’re sick. And I’m the only one she’s got now. I know how hard that is for her. Especially when she’s feeling ill. It’s time like this that you miss the person you’ve lost even more. She hasn’t said it, but I strongly suspect she’s feeling just as vulnerable as me right now. And that loss is feeling even more paramount. As she went to bed the other night she looked at me and said, “thank you for caring for me.” I told her it’s what I’ll always do. It’s what she’ll always do. We’ll care for each other forever. Because the last three and a half years have taught us even more that it’s what we need to do. Nothing else really matters except the two of us.

Yet as well as having someone to care for us in sickness, I’ve also really missed that person to care for us in health. I’m rapidly approaching four years into this new life of mine, but over the past few months, I’ve felt his absence that little bit more. When opportunities have presented themselves, I’ve not had anyone at home with me to discuss and sanity check them with. To just talk through the pros and cons. I’ve had to apply for a mortgage on my own for the first time and be the sole person to make financial decisions about our future. No-one to discuss it with. Likewise, when I was ill, I didn’t have that sounding board and person to talk to. To be able to look after me and our daughter. While Miss C has been ill, I’ve not had that person to bounce thoughts off. To stop me googling her symptoms at 3:30am. To help me rationalise.

This month and our illnesses have been firsts for us. And they’re probably firsts that no-one really thinks about. In a way I consider myself lucky that it’s taken over three years for us to face them. But at the same time, it’s been a stark reminder that our lives are changed forever. We no doubt still have so much more ahead of us that will be firsts that we aren’t expecting. But one thing I do know. The formidable team that is me and Miss C will face them headlong together. It’s what we do. And nothing and no-one will ever break us.

Am I going to die?

“Your sister has had an incident with a rabbit.”

I’m fairly sure this isn’t what my sister was expecting to hear when she saw my daughter’s number flash up on her phone last Sunday afternoon. Confused is the best way to describe her response. And I think the confusion became even greater when my mum followed up with that the Easter Bunny had fallen on my head. We’re in August after all, what on earth was she expected to think?!

But let me take you back to the beginning of this story. Last weekend was the weekend I’d had earmarked for months to empty, sort and tidy up the man cave at the bottom of the garden. It’s become a bit of a dumping ground over the last couple of years, but when it reached the point that I was struggling to even get in and needed to climb over boxes just to move, I knew something had to be done. The past few months have been pretty chaotic, and we had to clear it in the summer to prevent things being rained on, so August it was. I’d been off work for a couple of weeks, and it just felt like this was the perfect opportunity.

Saturday morning, I was fired up. I was raring to go. I was annoyed with myself that I’d let it get into this state and became a bit of a woman on a mission. “No, not used that in years, that can go” became a frequent phrase of mine. My mum, stepdad and I created piles of bits to stay, go to the tip (I do love a tip run after all!) and go to charity shops. By mid afternoon on Saturday, one side was all done and dusted. A proper sense of achievement, and I felt that Sunday would be a slightly easier day as the majority of the bits on the other side were already in boxes and just needed organising better.

But on Sunday morning, I wasn’t feeling as fired up. I’d woken up and tried to find family photos and videos of Mr C singing to send to accompany a recent podcast I’d recorded, and in that moment, I felt sad. The tears started to flow, and it felt like it was going to be harder doing more sorting of his belongings without him. It was, as I’ve come to know them, “a grief-y day.” But I persevered. My mum and stepdad came round again to help, and we got it done. More charity shop bags were created, and another tip run booked. We were going to finish earlier than the previous day and would then be all good to sit down with a cuppa. That was, until the Easter Bunny attacked.

As my mum and I went to put something in front of the windows, I accidently knocked the bunny which was on top of a box. It fell, hit me on the head and then fell to the floor where its foot was smashed off. I swore quite emphatically. It had really hurt after all, but I then continued with what I was doing. Mum walked out of the man cave to get a bag of peas or something else cold to pop on my head (benefit of her having been a nurse for over 30 years, she knows exactly what to do in circumstances like this). And then I realised my head and neck felt wet, feeling confused I put my hand there and discovered I was bleeding, and in my mind, there was a lot of blood.

“I’m bleeding” I then shouted and went to sit down in the garden. Mum was there, putting wet, cold kitchen towel on my head to stem the bleeding and I think it was at this point, I went into shock. “Am I going to die?” I asked her. The rational side of me knew I wasn’t, I hadn’t passed out and it wasn’t the most severe of bangs to the head, but the fear was palpable. As I looked at my daughter, I sobbed “I can’t die, I can’t leave her by herself, please don’t let me die.” Again, rational Emma knew this was unlikely, but vulnerable, irrational, widow Emma was scared. I think this Emma took my mum a little by surprise, it’s not often that I’m vulnerable like this in front of others. At this point, she sent my daughter indoors to make me a cup of sweet tea and made the call to my sister in a bid to get her to help calm me down and see sense. Ever the pragmatic realist, my sister was able to do this to a point and then we went to Minor Injuries.

Explaining that a giant rabbit had fallen on my head did feel, quite frankly, ridiculous. But then came the question which anyone who has lost someone close to them dreads “who is your next of kin?” I’d been there before; I knew chances were that I’d already changed it from Mr C but in that moment everything just felt too much. “I don’t know, I suppose it’s my mum” was my response as I started crying again. I don’t want to be reminded that I no longer have a spouse. The receptionist very kindly gave me a tissue and then I went to sit in the waiting area. Fortunately, I was seen relatively quickly and established I didn’t need stitches or any further treatment but needed to rest and do very little for the next 24 hours. I went back to my mums where she cooked us dinner, dozed on and off and then went home.

The next morning when I woke up, I was still feeling incredibly vulnerable. It just reminded me that accidents happen. Life can change in a heartbeat. The fear of leaving my daughter was the highest it’s been for a very long time. I sat on the sofa and just sobbed. While the physical pain had lessened, the emotional pain was a little bit higher. The underlying fear that lives inside me was that little bit higher. I don’t do sitting at the best of times but knew that I needed to rest. As much for my mental health as the physical recovery.

A few hours later, my stepdad popped round to help me take things to the charity shop and the dog to the groomers. But in another twist of fate, as we were looking at a broken picture frame, I unclipped part of it and a large shard of glass slipped and cut his leg. There was blood everywhere. Not overly great when you live with a child who doesn’t do blood! The fear crept in again, I felt sick. How could this have happened? Someone had literally just popped round to help me and there’d been another accident. I wasn’t entirely sure this was what was meant by taking it easy! Back to Minor Injuries I went, and the wait times were a lot longer than they’d been the day before. The guilt kicked in even more at this point, he was going to be there over lunch, and it was all my fault. I’d have to tell mum who was at work blissfully unaware of the carnage that had occurred. To cut a long story short, Minor Injuries were unable to help him, and he then had to go to A&E. Two hospitals, stitches, tetanus, antibiotics and eight hours after he’d come round to mine, he finally made it home. Guilt, emotion, vulnerability increasing by the second.

And as we were sat waiting for news from him, my daughter put Gavin and Stacey on. The episode where they get married. If you’ve not seen it, the bride’s uncle brings out a letter from her late father that he wrote for her wedding day. My tears were back. I yelled at my daughter to turn it off. I just couldn’t face dealing with seeing this on a TV screen. It’s something that pains me to this day and will probably pain me forever that Mr C never got the chance to do something like this. That he never got to tell people how he felt about them, to write letters for her as she grows up and more importantly, that he never got to say goodbye. To anyone. He was robbed of that opportunity, and I hate it. I absolutely hate it. For him and everyone who was left behind.

I went to bed that night emotionally fraught and done in again. Two accidents in two days. I was feeling the most vulnerable and fearful I’d felt in such a long time. I just wanted someone to give me a hug and tell me it was all going to be ok. Yet over the next few days, these feelings started to dissipate a little. My daughter had some friends over, I had my lovely WAY angel stay, we took cheques to both The Big Cat Sanctuary and Medway Hospital ITU totalling £2,020 from the profits from his calendar sales. I started to feel a bit more with it again. I then went away on Friday for a fabulous weekend with friends to see Jason Donovan. I’ve probably drunken and eaten too much over the past few days, but I’ve also let go. I’ve not been Control Freak Emma (can I get a range of dolls made like Barbie please?!) and I’ve had so much fun.

And on the drive home today it hit me. A week ago, I was a mess. A proper emotional mess. But what I’m learning as I go through widowhood is that while these days and feeling like this will never, ever go away, what has happened and will continue to happen, is that I’m better at managing them, accepting that they’re part of life and being able to bounce back that little bit quicker from them each and every time. I’ve learnt that it’s ok to be vulnerable, but it’s been a heck of a long time since that vulnerability and fear came to the fore as it did last weekend.

Yet that’s ok, and just serves as a very good reminder to be wary of the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and Father Christmas in future… turns out when they’re mixed with a clumsy person they can be a tad dangerous!

Widowhood is like a walk in the park

Imagine of the last selfie of Emma and Stuart Charlesworth plus a recent picture of Emma Charlesworth

Tomorrow marks our fourth Fathers’ Day without Mr C. I’m not sure there will ever come a time that this feels right, our daughter only had 10 with him, how can she possibly have done four without him by the time she goes to bed tomorrow night? And tomorrow also marks three years since I made my first post in the Widowed and Young (WAY) Facebook group, introducing myself, sharing the last ever selfie of the two of us and telling a brief overview of our story. Looking back now I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t really know what it was going to be like living as a widow when I made this post. And more importantly, what it was going to be like living as a young widow. I think the t-shirt my sister bought me for Christmas sums it up. It’s like a walk in the park. Assuming that park is Jurassic Park.

I’ve written before about being a little bit of a control freak. I’ve struggled at the complete and utter lack of control in my life a lot over the last three years. Yes. I do try to find ways to bring elements of control into it, but the simple fact is that I’m not sure I’ll ever be 100% in control again. And that is quite a scary prospect. A couple of months ago, after a particularly difficult day, I was sat just before midnight, with a bottle of wine, sobbing ( otherwise known as a Widow Wail (phrase I learnt today while hosting a WAY New Member Zoom)) and needing to read all the Facebook posts made in the days after he died and watching his funeral simply to feel close to him. This came from nowhere. I didn’t wake up that morning expecting it to be a difficult day for us. I didn’t wake up that morning and think “I know what’ll make for a fun Saturday night. I’ll watch his funeral until the early hours.” But this is what I mean about the lack of control. I don’t have a choice as to how I feel on any given day, it just sneaks up and hits me. Looking back to the day I made that initial post in the WAY group, I’m not entirely sure what I envisaged my life would be like, but a tiny part of me wouldn’t have expected days like this to still be happening nearly three years in. Naivete, I guess. But I didn’t really know what to expect. Who does? Grief is the most individual thing to experience, no matter how many others around you are also experiencing it.

The untold pressure I feel is huge. The ramifications of everything I do constantly weigh on my mind. Shortly before we went on holiday recently, I had a day whereby I just completely and utterly felt like I had let my daughter down. That I wasn’t good enough. That the juggle of working full time, being a mother, grieving the loss of my husband, trying to sort out care for my nan and still make time for me simply meant I’d dropped some balls along the way. And this was going to, and will have, an impact on us over the next year. My sister, quite rightly, put me in my place and told me that in no way had I let my daughter down, but it didn’t stop the feeling. It didn’t stop the tears that fell. Because I’m all my daughter has now. If I mess up, if I’m not at the top of my game, if I drop some balls, then it has a knock-on effect on what I can do for her, what I can offer her and there’s no-one else to step in and take that pressure off. The rational side of me knows that I am good enough, all she really needs is to feel loved and I give her that in spades, but that irrational, grieving widow just sometimes forgets it. And I simply don’t get a choice as to which version of me takes over and leads the charge when it comes to my thoughts.

And that leads me nicely onto another learning over the past three years. Choice. Or rather the lack of it. I wasn’t given a choice about this situation. Because I can safely assure you that I would have said no had this been the case! It’s one of the reasons I struggled so much in the early days with everyone telling me how brave and strong I was, I just wanted to shout at them that I wasn’t. That I was simply trying to live with the hand that life had dealt me. About six months in, I think I was ready to punch the next person who called me brave or strong (for anyone who watched the Kelsey Parker, Life after Tom documentary, you would have actually seen me say this on National TV!) but it’s true. I’m now better at acknowledging that yes, I have been insanely strong to not only achieve all I have in the most surreal of circumstances, but to still be standing. I’m not sure I’ll ever willingly call myself brave, but I will admit strength. It’s a strength I simply didn’t know I had in me until I was put through the toughest test of my life.

I’ve had to learn to adjust to the lack of choice about all aspects of my life. When I was growing up and imagining the marriage and the 2.4 children, at no point did I envisage being 42, on my own, solo parenting and having to ask my mum’s permission to go out! A prime example of this happened recently, I’d been in the office all day, my daughter was with my mum after school and some rather fabulous friends suggested meeting for a drink off the train. But I can’t just say yes anymore and tell Mr C what I’m doing, I had to ring my mum and ask if this was ok. When we then decided to stay out a teeny bit later, I again had to ring to ask if I could stay out later. 9pm was the agreed time that my stepdad would come and pick me up. 42 and on a curfew set by my mum, definitely living the dream here! But while I joke about this, the simple reality is that I couldn’t do anywhere near as much as I do without my mum and stepdad. From going to the office, to having nights out and the odd weekend away, I just couldn’t do it. I am forever indebted to them for all they do, and will continue to do for us. I don’t have the adequate words to express my gratitude, but it doesn’t mean I find it easy. To constantly have to check that they can help me out, and if they can’t, then have to ask friends or other family if they can. I absolutely 100% know that none of them mind in the slightest, and that people are happy to help, but it doesn’t mean it’s easy for me. While I might be Little Miss Organised and Little Miss Laminator, there are times when I wish spontaneity was a word that existed in my new life a little bit more.

It’s why I often do a bit of an eye roll when people ask me about dating again. Could you imagine what a catch I’d be? “I can offer you a Friday night in two months’ time once I’ve coordinated childcare, dog-care, work and around the other existing plans I’ve made months in advance because I have to get my life planned in order to do anything. Oh, and by the way, I also have an irrational love for Jason Donovan.” Who wouldn’t want me?! Again, the sarcastic, self-defensive side of me kicks in, because it’s just so, so hard to contemplate.

My daughter and I have recently had some very heated discussions about the prospect of me dating again. She inadvertently discovered the profile I’d created on a dating app, and it led to her feeling that I’d lied to her. But the simple truth, and as I told her, is I don’t think I want to date right now or go headlong into a relationship. I’m not actually sure where I’d find the time, but maybe that’s just because it’s not high on my list of priorities and if it was, I’d make time. But that doesn’t stop me feeling lonely. It doesn’t stop me wanting to have someone to care for. To have someone care for me. And have someone at the end of a long day send you a message asking how your day was.

It was the day after one of these discussions with her that I read an article by one of my LinkedIn connections, Alex Delaney, Co-Founder of Lemons.Life whereby she spoke about how she reacted after losing her husband. For the more easily offended among you, you might want to stop reading now! But I applaud Alex for being so honest about her experience and in particular about “Widows Fire.” Again. Another term that three years ago I hadn’t heard of. I can categorically tell you that this exists and is utterly real. There are days when you crave, long for and would do just about anything to have physical touch, to the point that it’s probably quite fortunate that our postman doesn’t have to ring the bell and can just leave parcels in the porch! Because it is that strong and overwhelming. It comes from nowhere. And there is no rhyme or reason for it.

But here’s the thing. Even if I wanted to go down the route that Alex chose to, it’s not that simple for me. We’re back to that choice and permission again. I very rarely go back to an empty house. Whoever is looking after my daughter always asks me where I’m going, who I’m going out with, and what time I’ll be home. Without question I’m exceptionally lucky to have so many people care for me, but could you imagine if I was to respond with “You wouldn’t know him Mum, I’m just off to have a casual night with someone I met on the internet.” I’m fairly sure that I know the response I’d get! And while there is a running joke amongst family and friends that I have 12 men on the go (I don’t, for the avoidance of doubt), I’m 42 now, I’m not sure where I’d get the energy from to do this! But if I’m being honest, there is a part of me that wonders what it must be like to be this age, to still want to feel desired, to act on those desires and not have to plan it weeks or possibly months in advance.

Yet, this is something my daughter cannot understand, because she simply doesn’t have the emotional maturity to. To her, it’s simple. I either love her dad or I love someone else. It’s not possible for me to do both. It’s not possible for me to love him but go out on dates. There is no just having a bit of fun. Even a friend with benefits would be out of the question if she had her way. Because in her eyes there is no grey. It’s black and white. And I completely understand that. I’m supportive of, and completely respect her views and do all I can do to reassure her that I’m not about to abandon her for a man. But it doesn’t mean that this is an easy situation for me to deal with. It doesn’t mean that I don’t want some affection, that I don’t think about it and wonder ‘what if?’ It doesn’t mean that I don’t get frustrated at what feels like a complete lack of choice or options.

Yet I’d be lying if I said widowhood had been all doom and gloom. It hasn’t. I have smiled, laughed, have had some brilliant adventures and am looking healthy again with a sparkle in my eyes. That’s not to say I wouldn’t give anything to have Mr C back, but I do find that you have to look for the things to be thankful for. For a start, I’d never have got away with the new flooring I chose in my kitchen and conservatory, decorating our utility room to be insanely pink or putting up numerous photos of Jason around the house. But more than anything widowhood has taught me so much about myself and what I’m capable of. It’s brought some rather brilliant and amazing people into my life who I’m fortunate to call friends. Again, I didn’t envisage that when I made that first post and while I hate what’s brought us together, I feel very lucky to have found them. None of us want to be in this situation, but that common ground is something that along with a dark sense of humour keeps us all going. It creates a bond. And without question shows that there is a WAY forward and that it is possible to keep living. Even on those very dark days.

Hang on to your love

Pictures of Emma Charlesworth and Jason Donovan across 2022

For the last two years I’ve posted a blog on 1 June, or as I prefer to call it Jason’s birthday. Mind you, since my daughter learnt it’s also Tom Holland’s birthday on 1 June, apparently that takes priority. Honestly. I don’t know where she gets it from. But as I read back the blogs from the last two years, I wasn’t sure if I’d have anything to say this year in honour of Jason’s birthday. I didn’t want it to feel like I was shoehorning a blog in just for the sake of mentioning him (again). And then I realised that once again this year, there’s been some key moments and learnings that have been linked to Jason. Probably not a surprise really.

I think back to this time a year ago when I wrote about just how difficult I’d found it changing my profile pic to be one that didn’t feature Mr C, and how it was a photo with Jason that finally made me feel able to do it. I’ve changed my profile picture on Facebook numerous times since then, each time it gets that little bit easier. I don’t overthink it anywhere near as much as I was doing before. I guess this is what people mean when they talk about time being a healer.

But while time does help to heal, and can show you how much progress you’ve made, the reality of mine and my daughter’s situation never really goes away. A classic example of this came at the end of June last year, the night before I was due to see Jason in Grease with my Northern Nutter. Every now and then, things just get too much for Miss C, she is essentially a carbon copy of me, she can go and go and then things build up and it’s like we’re a pressure cooker. Simply explode. It’s the best analogy I have to describe both of us, and it’s something that I’ve had to work on a lot over the years. This evening in particular was a bad one for her, which ultimately means it’s a bad one for me too.

It was a stark reminder that despite all the other hats I wear, that I’m a mother. First and foremost, I’m a mother. Every single day since Mr C fell ill has ultimately reinforced that. I would do absolutely anything for my daughter, because she is, without question, my priority. And as she exploded at me, my fears and concern for her were so great, that I knew that despite how much I was looking forward to the following day, I couldn’t go. She, not Jason, was who I needed to spend the following evening with. I didn’t want to leave her.

This wasn’t me being overdramatic, this is my reality. I will simply prioritise her above me every single time. I rang my sister and asked her to take the ticket and to go the following day. I explained what had happened and that I simply didn’t want to not be at home. I didn’t want my daughter to feel I was abandoning her. Yes. I really was prepared to give up a ticket to see Jason for my daughter.

And while my sister said that she would take it, she talked to me. She rang and spoke to my daughter. She was the voice of reason for both of us. Because she reminded me that I’m also a person. And every now and then I am ok to prioritise me. Despite whatever else might be going on in my life, sometimes prioritising me is ok. It was quite hard to hear. I felt guilty for wanting to still go and have fun and see Jason. The constant conflict in my life. But 24 hours later I was so blinking glad she had reminded me of that. I simply had the most fabulous time with my kindred spirit eating fish finger sandwiches (nothing wrong with brown bread right?!), drinking cocktails and prosecco, and learning that I will simply never be as cool as she is even when I attempt to dress as a Pink Lady. I have never laughed so much at a stage door stakeout, especially when the three policemen walked up behind us! It was definitely worth the wait, Jason was as wonderful as ever, he posed for photos with us both and we whooped appropriately as he’d asked us to when he came on stage.

At the end of the day, I went home and was still a mother. But I actually think I was a slightly better one because I’d given myself a night off and looked after me. I don’t know if it was the cocktails talking, but it simply reminded me that I can’t pour from an empty cup. Prioritising me is just as important as prioritising my daughter. But that’s one of the things about widowhood and solo parenting a bereaved child, you tend to forget that a lot of the time.

Yet I won’t lie, the surprise trip to Bristol in September a few months later was prioritising Miss C. Yes, Jason was obviously there too, but I made the sacrifice and organised a brilliant surprise for so she could be front row to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and in particular, Jac Yarrow as Joseph. She had no idea until my sister and I got her to the theatre and saw Jac standing there. He was as lovely as always and when I met Jason a little bit later, his words to me “It’s been a long time, how are you?” made me melt. Not going to lie about that! And just a few weeks later in October, prioritising my daughter was again, without question, what I needed to do. You see, we went to see Joseph in Southend. On driving there, we learnt that Jac was ill and wouldn’t be performing. I think it’s fair to say that my daughter was heartbroken on learning this. “Are we stage dooring?” my mum asked when we arrived. “No” was my response. Because as much as I always love to do a stage door stakeout and chat to Jason, in that moment, I knew that my daughter was my priority. It would have simply been too hard for her to do it knowing that it wouldn’t have been possible for her to see the one person she wanted to. I couldn’t do that to her. That day she was the priority. Not me. Not Jason. Her. Because I’m first and foremost a mother. And I don’t want her feeling any more pain than she needs to.

Plus I knew I was seeing Jason again a couple of weeks later in Grease two nights in a row (a first for me). This was around the time that I was simply trying to do too much, trying to prove that I could do my old life and ultimately coming to the realisation that I can’t do that anymore. It’s what led me to realise that I’m not wonder woman and to re-evaluate all I was doing. See. Everything always, always comes back to Jason! Yet the stage door escapades were just as amusing as they had been back in June, even if he did tell me and the Northern Nutter off for waiting for him and not being in the theatre! Most amusing of all was his question “who’s Carl?” upon seeing my We love Carl badge (that’s a whole other story to be fair). It was another fun evening, yet, I can see in the photos how tired I looked. It was a far cry from how I’d looked in June and September. My Jason photos of 2022 really do tell a story about my widowhood journey.

And sadly, I didn’t manage to find anyone that wanted to take me to Australia to see Jason in Rocky Horror which is where he’s been for a large part of 2023. But he was back in the UK and did a one-off gig at Indigo at The O2 in April. Obviously I got tickets, although that in itself wasn’t without its stresses and confusion! And as the excitement started to build, a couple of friends made me smile. Without even realising just how much I value it, they started to wind me up. Both of these people have come into my life in the last year, and I hope they’ll both be in my life for a long time to come. “I think he’s got your name on the door to get security to question you. I’d be surprised if you made it in” was one of the messages received. When I joked with my other friend that I was on a hot date that evening, “Do not mention JD” was his response. I subsequently admitted that the hot date was, in fact, a Jason gig. But this ribbing about Jason really does mean a lot to me. Because it’s what Mr C used to do. As much as I tell my friends off for being mean to me, I secretly enjoy it. I enjoy the banter. It’s like when my daughter said “Is that all? Feels like you’ve been banging on about that for forever” when I told her it was a year since I’d got engaged. In an odd way, these things help keep Mr C with me and a part of the Jason adoration. Because every time I get a cutting comment from my daughter or messages from friends like these, I smile or laugh as I used to when he used to send them. I like the fact that I can be so open now about Jason from the off with new people who come into my life and that they feel comfortable enough to wind me up about it. It took years for me to get like that with Mr C, but now it’s simply part of who I am. Take it or leave it. I’m not giving up Jason for anyone, not even for that handsome millionaire that I’ve tasked my friends with finding for me!

And just the other day when on a work call, a new colleague queried the picture in my office. “Oh, that’s my marriage proposal from Jason Donovan” was my response as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to have something like this on your wall. Again, I was reminded how far I’ve come in feeling comfortable in myself to have conversations like this. How it doesn’t bother me anymore that while it might not be cool to admit to being a Jason Donovan fan, it’s certainly not something I’d have done in my teenage years or early 20s, it’s just part of who I am. A woman who is first and foremost a mother, but a woman who has also had some amazing experiences and learnings thanks to the celebrity she fell in love with at the age of seven. To write a blog dedicated to that man on his birthday once a year isn’t shoehorning him in, it’s actually the most natural thing in the world to do. Because he’s a massive part of my rollercoaster life. And one day, when I grow up, I still want to marry Jason Donovan. I think I always will.

Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?

I’m struggling to get my head around today. Three years. Three years since the hope we’d all been clinging to was lost. Someone said to me during the three weeks Mr C was in ITU, “where there’s life, there’s hope.” But three years ago, our hope, and with it, his life were lost. I don’t really know why three years feels so much longer than two years, but it does, it really does. My daughter and I have found the thought of this one more of a challenge. It just feels like a really, really long time.

But it’s not really, is it? In the grand scheme of things, it’s still just a short amount of time. I remember being at the Widowed and Young AGM in September last year, and a fellow widow commented that I was still early in my journey. In my head, I couldn’t quite work out how two and a half years was early, after all, it felt like forever to me, but the reality is that it’s not that long at all. Not when I think about his, and my story.

A year ago, my blog “Learning to live with the unimaginable…” was inspired by Hamilton. I think, to a certain extent, this one is inspired by that musical too. I recently took our daughter to see it again (I rue the day we ever got her into musical theatre!) and this time my sobs were also at “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” This question feels a particularly pertinent and relevant one for me. I remember some of the very few calls I made on this day three years ago. “Please help me make sure he isn’t forgotten.” “Please help me make sure she doesn’t forget him.” “Please help me keep his memory alive.” I uttered all three of these phrases whilst telling people he had died. Welcome to the world of widowhood. Even just a few hours into this new life, the fear was there. I hadn’t realised then just how acquainted fear and I were going to become as my story continued.

Fear has definitely become one of my main drivers over the last three years. Fear of pain. Fear of losing others. Fear of him being forgotten. I think this latter point is what drives me most of all. Why I’ve chosen to tell his, and my story. I think that’s why these lyrics always make me take a sharp intake of breath and make those sobs just a little bit stronger:

“You could have done so much more if you only had time And when my time is up, have I done enough? Will they tell your story?”

I know how much more he wanted to achieve in his life. I know how much more he was capable of. It’s why I simply cannot bear the concept of people not remembering or talking about him and his story. It really is that simple. His photos are still up around our house, I still talk about him regularly, I’m planning another charity event in his name in 2024 and I’ve got a few other plans up my sleeve as well. To be clear. I don’t do any of these things because I’m stuck in the past or struggling to “get over it.” I do this because it helps keep his memory alive, and helps me and others. He’d very much like the thought he’s still having an impact, despite no longer physically being here. I know if he’d have been given more time, or been able to prepare me for his death, that this is something he would have told me to do. “Do good. Help others.”

He’d have also told me to be happy, to find someone else and not to live my life in his shadow. I wonder if those close to me are starting to think more about this now too. And query why I haven’t. More and more this year, I’ve been asked if I’ve thought about starting a new relationship. It’s been a funny old year when it comes to that, I won’t lie. I do get a pang when I read or hear about other widows or widowers who have found love again. Or when my single friends start a new relationship. But that’s all it is, a fleeting pang because my overriding emotion is happiness. I feel pleased for them. Life is too short not to be happy. And what I’ve come to realise over the last few months, is that while part of the pang is jealousy because I wonder why no-one wants me, the stronger pain and feeling isn’t jealousy that I’m not in a relationship or dating. It’s actually my new best friend, fear. Fear at other people’s lives moving on, fear as to whether they’ll still be friends with me as their lives change but most of all, fear of being abandoned. Told you. Fear. It’s become an integral part of my life.

A few weeks after he died, I remember saying I’d never be in another relationship in the future because I couldn’t contemplate going through the pain of losing someone again. I was too fearful of it. Today, I still can’t help but feel I’ll be on my own forever. One of my closest friends cried when I told her this recently. Granted, I’m not a psychic and no-one can predict the future, but it’s just a feeling I have. But oddly enough it’s not because of the fear of the pain now. It’s because I’m now too fearful of change. Of upsetting the apple cart. I’m actually starting to feel at peace in my life again. Something that when I got that call from the hospital three years ago, I wasn’t sure I ever would.

I’m getting more comfortable not being part of a couple for the first time in my adult life. I’m getting more comfortable as a widow. And while it’s still a massive part of who I am, it’s not all I am. I’m getting used to the biggest plot twist in my story. I don’t necessarily view being on my own as a bad thing. It doesn’t keep me up at night worrying about it. I don’t cry myself to sleep because I’m on my own. My tears are for the man I lost. For his life being cut short. For what everyone has lost since he died. For everyone who is missing a man who played an important part in so many stories.

When I think about my own story, I think about my entire life. The many chapters which make it up. The phrase Chapter 2 is often used to describe the next relationship after a bereavement, but in my opinion, my new chapter began the day he died. I had chapters in my life before I met him and each one of them has shaped me into being who I am today. It’s why I found a certain irony when looking through photos and reminding myself of one he edited to say “Co-author of my story.” My story, like his, is not simply because we were part of a relationship, we were co-authors to each others stories but not the main writer. I’m not a strong-willed feminist in any way, but I simply don’t believe any of us should be defined by another person or relationship. Self-validation is way more important. I’ve spent the last three years learning who I am as a person in her own right, and I quite like her. Another one of the greatest learnings of widowhood. The need to get to know and understand yourself.

And I already know that getting more acquainted with myself and self-preservation is part of what this next year has in store for me. My next learning. Having to learn and get used to being on my own more. I’m watching my daughter grow into a beautiful teenager, with her own life, becoming more and more independent and with fabulous friends around her. Her dad would be so, so proud of her. But with this comes change for me. Last week, she had an impromptu sleepover with a friend. I was on my way home from the office when she messaged to ask if she could stay with her friend overnight, of course my answer was yes. But that little fear monkey was on my shoulder again. Because I wasn’t entirely sure what I was meant to do on my own for the evening. I panicked a little bit. An unplanned evening to myself. What the heck was I meant to do? The control freak couldn’t cope. The fear was there. The realisation that this is yet something else I have to adjust to.

But I did cope. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it might be. I had a meal for one, a glass of gin, sat on the sofa, did some writing, listened to music and just thought about my life for a bit.

I wouldn’t have chosen this to be my life and my story in a million years. If I had the power to go back and change it, I would without question, but I don’t have a bad life. All things considered.

I have my daughter, my dog, amazing family and friends, my health, my job, volunteering for WAY, my blog, holiday plans and other ambitions.

All of these are things I’d have been beyond grateful for three years ago. I didn’t know what would come next in my story. I didn’t know how I was meant to do this life without my husband by my side. I’m still not really sure how I’m doing it. But I am. And three years ago today, that simply didn’t seem possible. I was stood at the entrance to a very dark and long tunnel. Finding light at the end of it seemed impossible. But little by little that light is becoming easier to find. All these things are helping me find it. And one day when someone tells my story, they’ll make up an integral part of it. As will my late husband. Forever a part of my story.

Happy birthday Miss C

Family picture of The Charlesworths

To the most amazing person I know,

This week has felt hard for me. I’ve been teary most days. The realisation that you are entering a new phase of your life as you become a teenager and your dad is not here to see it has struck me this week. Of the three birthdays you’ve now had since he died, this is the one I’ve found the most challenging. But that’s grief and loss for you. Just odd.

But I don’t want that to detract from today. Because today is the day I get to celebrate the day you came into the world. The day you made me a mother. It is a day I hope I never forget. Meeting you for the first time, holding you for the first time and realising my life would never quite be the same again. We loved you before we even met you. Of course we did. Our very first scan when you started hitting with your fists because, quite frankly, you’d had enough of being prodded about! We should have known then what a feisty little character you’d turn out to be. The reality is though we loved you from the moment we first found out I was pregnant, you were a very longed for and wanted baby. Your dad had always, always wanted to be a father and finally he was going to get the chance to do just that.

As I sat wrapping your presents last night, I thought back to the night before you were born. It’s the weirdest thing in the world for me not having anyone to reminisce about that with now. There’s so much about that evening I remember, what we were watching, the timings of it all, the weather etc… I know it’s down to me to document that for your future. I feel untold pressure that I am the only one that can give you your history and answer your questions now, I want you to know everything. If the last few years have taught me anything it’s that we all need to know about our past, because when others have gone it’s all we have left. And none of us can promise to be here to share it at another point in time.

I vividly remember us bringing you home from the hospital and me looking at your dad and saying “what are we meant to do now?” Because nobody gave me a manual when I became a mother. Nobody told me what I was meant to do. Sure, I knew the basics. Feed you, clothe you, change you but there was so much more that I had no real concept of. It was a learning curve for both me and your dad. No matter how prepared we might have felt going into that pregnancy. I suspect it’s how most new parents feel, the phrase winging it which has become such a big part of our lives probably started right back then. That was the start of one of the most wonderful rollercoaster rides of my life, the rollercoaster of being your mother.

And my. What a rollercoaster it has been. That it will continue to be. Because that’s something I wasn’t really prepared for. The pride and love as you grow up and achieve new things, while at the same time wanting you to stay as you are forever. I loved having a newborn, I really did. Someone to just sit and cuddle, who didn’t argue with you… I still remember starting to doubt myself when you really started to develop your own personality around the age of two. I have never felt so unsure of anything in my life. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I was “good enough” to be your mum. A phrase that has repeatedly been part of my life. I won’t lie because I did struggle at this time. I didn’t know how to be good enough for you. It’s something that I’ve always strived for, not to be the perfect mother because I don’t believe this is possible, but to be the good enough mother. If only I’d have known then, what I know now…

As when you were born, nobody gave me a manual when your dad died. Nobody could have ever told me how to parent a bereaved child. There is a part of me that would give absolutely anything to have changed what you’ve gone through. For you to never have experienced a fraction of what you have. I suspect I’ll feel this way forever. But the reality is that I can’t do this. Life doesn’t work like that. I mean, you reminded me of that one day when you were about four and I said you weren’t being very fair on me “mum, you always tell me life isn’t fair, so…” In that moment, I didn’t know whether to feel proud, laugh or tell you off for being cheeky! Like I say the scan should have taught me how feisty you would go on to become.

And that’s the simple truth isn’t it? Life isn’t fair. You know that more than most. But what you also know more than most is that surviving anything life throws at you is absolutely possible. Because you’re doing it. Right now, whether you think you are or not, you’re doing it. And I am so unbelievably proud of you. If you remember nothing else as you go through your life, I want you to remember that. I am so unbelievably proud of you. Your dad was so unbelievably proud of you. Remember that you are loved. I love you more than anything (even Jason. And that young lady is saying something!) Your dad loved you more than anything. If he’d have known what was going to happen to him and that you would grow up without him, it would have absolutely broken his heart. I’m so thankful he didn’t, I’d have hated to watch that and it would have changed the time the two of you had together. He fought so hard to beat COVID-19, he fought so hard to come home to you and I’m sure his final act of love for you was walking down the stairs to that waiting ambulance. I’m sure he didn’t want you to see him carried out of the house. He loved you, and even at that moment, you would have been his priority. There is no doubt in my mind about that.

I like to think of him now as your guardian angel. Your protector. I can fully imagine him rolling his eyes a little bit at you though. The sudden fascination with Marvel and in particular Spiderman… The dresses which don’t reach your ankles anymore… The heels… The make up… But I’m also sure that he’s also smiling at all of this. Because from afar he’s watching his baby grow up into an amazing, beautiful, thoughtful young lady. I know you think this is all nonsense, but I do like to think of him still watching over you.

He was always way more prepared for you growing up than I was. He always knew each of the phases of your life wouldn’t last for long. He’d probably be coping with this way better than I am. The video he did for you on your 10th birthday proved that. He always found a way of showing his love via creativity and music. Makes perfect sense really where you get it from. You’re so very much like him. It’s one of the many, many things I love about you.

Yet while I wish I could freeze time at times and keep you as you are, equally I am so excited at watching you grow up. At being privileged to physically see the person you are becoming. The person who binge watches programmes your dad and I used to watch together. The person who is my travel buddy. The person that takes control on the subway when I get slightly confused. The person who puts so much thought into gifts for me. The person with an entrepreneurial spirit. The person so determined to achieve her dreams. The person who 100% has not let her experiences in life define her but is instead using them to shape her. To teach her. The person who is becoming independent of me and needing me in a different way. It’s hard adjusting to that, I must admit, but it reassures me that we’ve done a good enough job in raising you. That you don’t need me in the same way you once did. And if I turn into the crazy cat lady you’re hoping for, I will do it with a smile on my face knowing that I can only do it because of who you are. The person your dad and I taught you to be.

So, here’s to you Miss Charlesworth. Here’s to the next little part of the rollercoaster of mother and daughter. Here’s to me getting more grey hairs now the teenage years are here! I genuinely can’t wait to see where life takes you now. I promise that for as long as I can, I will never let go of you, but I will let you go your own way, help you learn from your mistakes, never, ever judge you and be the biggest supporter you’ll ever have.

Happy birthday baby girl. I love you to the moon and back again. For always.

Mum xx