Tag: Widowhood

A new hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The power of love and hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there you have what clicked for me. Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all this time? Always.

This is 45

Photos of Emma’s birthdays from 2020 to 2025

And just like that, we’re at six years since Mr C was taken by ambulance to our local hospital. Six years since our daughter looked at me and asked, is Daddy going to be OK? Six years since life as we knew it spectacularly imploded. Six years since COVID-19 entered the lives of his family, friends, colleagues and all who knew him in a way that they’d never forget. Six years since I turned 39 years old. Which, of course, means that today I turn 45.

That in itself might not seem like a particularly big milestone. It’s not a “big” birthday. Except it’s a milestone that has been sitting with me for a while now. And one that hasn’t been sitting very well. Because 45 is the age my husband was when he died. 45 is the last birthday we ever celebrated with him. Being perfectly honest, I can’t even remember what we did on his birthday in 2019, his last birthday on earth. I’ve gone back and looked, and it was a Wednesday. Did we go out for dinner? Did he go to work? I had no way of knowing that I’d been wondering many years later. That I’d need to try to capture every moment of it because it would be his last.

It feels weird to be turning 45. I vividly remember being 15 and thinking that 30 was old. Anything older than that didn’t really cross my mind. I think when you’re that age, you have no real idea of the concept of being a grown up. How it lasts for a really, really long time (if you’re fortunate, that is). To now be able to say “I’m 45” makes me think I’m a proper grown up. Someone who really should have her life together. And shouldn’t still be trying to make sense of what the hell has happened to her since her 38th birthday. Her last one before the day was forever marred by a panic stricken 999 call in the early hours of that day.

In the run up to today I’ve been asked what I’d like for my birthday. I’ve been asked what I’m doing today to celebrate. It’s been the same every birthday since 2020. All the photos above show my birthday every year. The video call in 2020. My 40th in the garden with visitors (and carboard Jason Donovan) in 2021. A curry after a surreal day in 2022. Going to the office and treating myself to a coffee on the train in 2023. The belated trip to the West Coast of the USA in 2024. A cheeky visit to the Haribo store in 2025. I wonder what today’s photo will turn out to be of.

Generally speaking, most years (aside from 2024) and certainly this year, my answer to those two questions has typically been that I’d like to pretend it’s not happening. That I’m not doing anything. Today though, as luck would have it, I’m actually going to hospital for an appointment for my daughter. Taking after her father there with making sure a hospital is involved on my birthday. After all, that tradition started on my 20th birthday when Mr C had his first chemotherapy session!

And as I’ve said. This birthday simply hasn’t been sitting well with me. I’ve not enjoyed anyone turning 45 since he died. A fear of that age. I’ve almost breathed a sigh of relief when people have turned 46. I wonder if this is more of an issue for young widows, I certainly don’t remember my nan feeling this way when she became older than my grandad. Or if she did, she didn’t say it out loud to us.

Perhaps, it’s another one of those almost unexpected milestones in young widowhood and grief. People always talk about the year of firsts, about important birthdays, things that will happen in my daughter’s future such as learning to drive. But this quiet little milestone of reaching the same age as your late husband isn’t one that others have factored in. And why would they? It’s not something I’d have really thought about before I lived through this experience. Yet more than that. Every year when I turn older on my birthday, it’s a little reminder that my husband doesn’t get older anymore. That this day of me getting older is essentially the day that time stopped for him. Granted, he didn’t lose his life on this day, but he very nearly did. The early hours of this day marked the last time he was ever in our house. The last time he heard the words “I love you” from our daughter. The last time he was properly conscious and cognizant of those around him. It’s the most bittersweet pill to swallow that I should “celebrate” on this day. My daughter hasn’t been able to say the words “Happy Birthday” to me since 2019. She struggles with birthdays generally and mine is particularly tough for her. I can’t say I blame her.

I suspect today is also slightly more jarring for me this year because for the first time since 2020, all the pertinent dates related to my late husband falling ill and his death are falling on exactly the same day. My birthday was a Monday in 2020. It’s a Monday today. The pertinent dates falling on the same day over the last few weeks has been plain weird. I genuinely believe that the body keeps score and reminds us even if we don’t consciously think about it. I hit 16 March this year and it was like my body knew. I was ratty, tired, apathetic. Last Sunday, 22 March, the day he came down with his temperature was a weird one. I had no energy to be sociable. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was over it. I suspect I was also slightly on a comedown after a fun few weeks for the Jason Donovan Doin’ Fine Encore tour. But still, these reminders and dates were feeling hard.

So, in typical Emma fashion and to avoid me being swallowed up by the overthinking and melancholy that could accompany the year of being 45, I’ve decided to try to do something positive. Admittedly, there was a bit of overthinking that led to this when I sat and worked out when I would be older than Mr C ever got to be. I suddenly got it in my head that it would fall on my daughter’s birthday in January. It doesn’t but I was very close with my thinking, it’s four days before.

And what is that something positive? Between now and that day I’m going to try to live a little more deliberately. Because I know all too well that life is short and can change in a heartbeat. Tiny adventures. Brave moments. Things that make me laugh. Things that honour him. A whole variety of things. A collection of 46 moments and activities between today and the day I become older than my husband ever got to be.

I’m a marketer by background so of course I’ve had to come up with a name for this. And make a pretty little social media tile. The Time In Between felt particularly apt, because that’s what the next nine months are. The Time In Between reaching the same age as and then turning older than him. And I’ll be documenting them all on my social media platforms, because then I’ll have nice memories popping up each year during this time. That’s important to me. Making positive memories to balance out the more painful ones.

I’ve already got some ideas of what I’m going to do during this period of time. Some incredibly simple, some a little bit more adventurous. Because that’s the thing with life, isn’t it? It can be both simple and adventurous.

But if I’ve learnt anything over the last six years, it’s that life is made up of so much. And we never know quite when or why it’s going to change. Or when we’re going to run out of time to do that thing we’ve been putting off doing. To open the celebratory bubbly we’ve been saving for a special occasion. To pick up the phone and make a call to someone we’ve not spoken to in a while. To simply live our lives. Before it’s too late.

Six years ago today, time felt like my enemy. It felt like I’d not had enough time with him. That time had been stolen from me. For the next few weeks, I had no real concept of time. It was all just such a blur. Of going through the motions. Time still does feel like my enemy a bit. It feels like forever and no time at all since that fateful day. I guess that’s why I’m choosing to make the most of The Time In Between.

Because over the past six years, I’ve realised just how very precious life is. How short it really is. How it’s a privilege to grow older, despite all the issues that come with being a woman in her 40s. And most of all, just why it’s just so important to make the most of the hand that life deals you.

My daughter might not be able to say it, but I can. Happy Birthday to me. Here’s to whatever the next nine months and future has in store for me.

Day of Reflection 2026

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

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

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

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

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

Becoming Emma Charlesworth, Author

Various images of Emma Charlesworth and her book Is Daddy Going to Be OK?

Today is World Book Day. And this one feels a little bit different. Because this is my first World Book Day as the author of Is Daddy Going to Be OK? Since I’ve been able to hold a book in my hands and say I wrote this.

For many years, I was one of those mums that came to dread World Book Day. It simply meant finding a costume for my daughter (my brilliant parrot umbrella for Mary Poppins was quite something). Books and reading were always something that I actively encouraged as she was growing up. Language and storytelling were something that I knew the importance of, but they belonged to others. Not me.

I didn’t grow up aspiring to write a book. I didn’t have plans to become an author. Writing was never something I pursued with any sense of ambition or expectation. I didn’t write. It just wasn’t something that I thought was good at. Every year at our annual performance review at work, I’d say that writing was a skill I needed to develop. I didn’t write in greetings cards, leaving that to my late husband. Yet here I am. An author. And the journey to get here has been a heck of a rollercoaster (no pun intended).

When I started writing my blog in 2021, I didn’t start it because I had a plan. I started it because my social media posts had become insanely long. Family and friends suggested a blog would be a good idea and may help others. It was a natural progression. When my husband fell ill in March 2020, I quickly took to social media to share our story and to get support. Because under the COVID-19 lockdown restrictions, virtual support was all I could get. Sharing our story and writing became a lifeline for me. It helped me feel less isolated by knowing that there were people out there thinking of us. Willing my husband to get better. The social media posts I wrote four weeks later when he died, were some of the hardest posts I’d ever written. How do you share that your husband has died at the age of 45 of a virus that up until a few months previously no-one had ever heard of?

As the days turned into months, my writing helped me as I tried to adjust to our new world. As I learnt how to put one foot in front of the other as a young widow and solo parent. As I tried to make sense of the senseless. As I captured moments, thoughts and feelings that shone a light into the world of bereavement and grief. What I didn’t realise at the time was that writing wasn’t just helping me process what had happened. It was preserving it. It was creating something that would outlast those early days of grief and the immediate aftermath.

Over time, what I viewed as my little ramblings became something more than I had ever expected. People began to read them. To connect with my words. To see themselves in them. Messages would arrive from strangers who understood in ways that others couldn’t. From people who were also navigating loss, or who had followed our story during the pandemic and had never forgotten it.

People told me to write a book. I laughed it off. Where on earth would I find the time to do that? But more than that, writing a book felt too big. Too permanent. Too exposing. Writing a blog post felt safe. It existed in the moment. It reflected where I was at that point in time. But a book felt different. A book would become part of the record. Something that couldn’t be quietly edited or reshaped with the passage of time.

But slowly, writing a book, telling our story, the real story of the pandemic became something I wanted to do. I began to understand why it mattered to me so much. And I was “gently” encouraged to explore the art of the possible, after all, what did I have to lose? So, in March 2024, on the holiday my late husband and I had always planned to do my 40th birthday, I opened my emails and got the final push I needed to turn a hypothetical into a reality. And thus began the concerted effort to write my book.

I didn’t sit down and define an audience. The marketer in me would be quite cross at that. All I simply wanted to do was tell our story in my voice. I didn’t write the book in chronological order; I had to write as memories and thoughts came to me. Putting myself back into 2020 and 2021 was incredibly tough. I’d changed phones and lost all my messages from those early days, so I’d ask my sister “could you send me the group message from X date.” Invariably the response was “where are you? if you’re on the train or at work, don’t read this now.” My commutes became my writing time. Any spare moment tended to turn into writing time. I’d drop my daughter at dancing and then sit in a coffee shop writing. I’d write on the train as I travelled to weekends away. Writing become a second full time job. And I then had an epiphany about what to name each chapter. “To Charlie” was coming to life. The words I ended my speech with at his Memorial Service were the title of the book. It was happening.

But then I hit a wall. I procrastinated over finishing it. And it was only through my life coaching sessions with the wonderful Sheryl Findlay, that I was able to unlock why.

Subconsciously, it felt that this book was my final goodbye to my husband. Everything that had gone before was leading up to this. This book would tell the end of his story and the beginning of my new life as a young widow and a solo parent. To finish this book felt like saying goodbye to him for the last time.

Once I unlocked that, it made the final days of writing easier. It reminded me that his life hadn’t simply ended. His story and his legacy were continuing, just in a different way. It might have been my final goodbye as his wife, but it would mean that he would be immortalised in print forever more. A place in history. As I got ever closer to finishing it, it brought up so many emotions. My last words were written at Peckforton Castle, the place my nan lived when she was evacuated during the Second World War. I was nearby for a Widowed and Young event and it felt like the most apposite place to write. I hadn’t realised when I sat at Peckforton with a coffee just how close I was to finishing it. As I closed my laptop for the last time, the tears came. The tears continued for the whole of my drive home.

A short while later I found myself back in therapy again. I hadn’t prepared myself for what it would do to me by putting myself back in those early stages of grief, finishing the book and coming to a number of realisations about my life. The book which I’d dedicated so much time and effort to simply lived on my laptop. I had to put my mental health first. I had to focus on me and process everything I’d compartmentalised and buried for nearly five years. My brain allowed me to process it better. Time does that. I’d compartmentalised because it was just too damn painful to deal with at the time. Now I had to deal with it to help me move forward.

And then. After about six months or so, the want to do something with To Charlie returned. I contacted agents. At times it felt like I was pitching into an abyss. I had numerous conversations to get advice on publishing a book. And then in April 2025, Softwood Books was recommended to me… the rest is history.

I learnt so much working with the team. I still am. Their patience as I gave them a manuscript with the caveat that I didn’t think I liked the title of the book anymore. Because I felt that people would see it and think it was a letter to my late husband rather than being a toast to him. The noddy questions I asked about publishing a book and all that entailed. The noddy questions I’m still asking of the team! My deliberations and meticulous attention to detail. Is Daddy Going to Be OK? became the new title. The book cover incorporating yellow hearts as they became a symbol for all those lost to COIVD-19. My late husband’s handwriting as part of the logo for Twists of Hope Publishing. So much work in the run up to the release date of 14 November 2025. The day that would forever become the day I became a published author. The day that I knew World Book Day would take on a new meaning for me.

Yet Is Daddy Going to Be OK? isn’t just a book for me. This is my family’s story and a way of creating a legacy for my late husband and daughter. And in some small way, a legacy for everyone whose lives were affected by the pandemic. It was never about writing a book for the sake of it. It was about making sure that our story existed in a form that couldn’t be forgotten. From the day my husband died, I was adamant that he wouldn’t became a statistic of the pandemic. One of the numbers we heard every day on the news. Figures representing loss, but not the people behind them.

My late husband was, and always will be, so much more than that.

He was a father. A husband. A son. A brother. An uncle. A nephew. A cousin. A godfather. A friend. A colleague. He had a life that was full of meaning, humour, kindness and love. He had a future that should have stretched far beyond the age of 45. And our daughter deserves to have something she can hold onto. Something that tells the story not just of how he died, but of how he lived, and how she and I continued afterwards.

I am an author but I’m also still the same person who wrote those waffly social media posts and started a blog. I am still navigating grief in all its complexity. World Book Day this year also falls just a few days before the COVID-19 Day of Reflection, a day dedicated to remembering those who lost their lives during the pandemic and the millions of people whose lives were changed forever.

For many, the pandemic is something that feels increasingly distant. Something that belongs to the past. But for families like mine, its impact is ongoing. This World Book Day, I find myself reflecting not on the book itself, but on the journey that led to it. The unexpected path from survival to legacy.

But above all else, this book exists because my late husband existed. Because he was, and still is, loved. Because he is missed. I wrote a blog nearly three years ago, titled “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story?” Telling his story is something I needed to do. Because it deserves to be told. Our story deserves to be told. He deserves to be remembered. Books and words have a way of outliving us. They’re a legacy. They carry pieces of people forward into the future. They help make sure that even in absence, there is still presence.

This World Book Day, that means everything.

Is Daddy Going to Be OK? is a memoir about grief, widowhood and resilience after losing my husband during the pandemic, and about helping a child navigate loss. The book is available from the below retailers:

The cost of being a widow

I’m going to talk about something in this blog which might make people feel uncomfortable. Because it’s another one of those topics that can be fairly taboo. We don’t really talk about it. And it’s not a three-letter word which would definitely make my daughter feel uncomfortable, but a five-letter one.

Money

As well as the grief and all the emotional aspects of being widowed young, there is also an incredibly practical impact too. The financial impact. And the perception that people have around this. I’m pretty sure that there are people out there who think that I’m the merry widow living the life of Riley and mortgage free because my husband died. This isn’t just me speculating, I vividly remember bumping into someone who knew my late husband about a year after he died to be met with the comment “you must be laughing now you don’t have a mortgage anymore.” There is so much wrong with this sentence, I don’t really know where to start. I also had a friend say “well, you have been spending a lot of money lately” in 2022, two years after my husband died. To be fair to them, they were right, we had. My daughter had danced in Disneyland Paris with her dance school, we’d been on holiday to Florida and I’d been doing some house renovations. But I’d only had been able to do this because my husband died. Would I rather have not been spending the money, not going on holiday and not renovating the house but have my husband alive? Yes. That’s an unequivocal yes.

Because in short, while I might spend money, I’m not laughing. Because I do still have a mortgage. The Florida holiday and house renovations were paid for out of the life insurance, I didn’t use it fully on my mortgage. The irony of my late husband’s life insurance does still cause me have a wry smile. We’d changed and updated our life insurance policies about nine months before he died, but, because of his previous cancer diagnosis and the fact his cholesterol wasn’t great, the monthly premiums were high. We didn’t take out a policy for him which would have meant that the mortgage would be paid off entirely in the event of his death, opting instead for just a big chunk. Had we both known we’d only be paying it for nine months I think we’d have swallowed that monthly cost. But that’s the thing with insurance, isn’t it? You don’t ever really expect to be making a claim, do you? I’m just so incredibly grateful that we did at least have something in place; because in the immediate aftermath of his death, it meant that my daughter and I were able to stay in our home and not have to deal with selling and moving on top of everything else we had to navigate.

I’ll openly admit I entered quite a lengthy “life is too short” era when the world opened up again following lockdown. My daughter and I had a “F**k It Week” in 2022 where we saw multiple shows across a week and went away. I’ve been reluctant to say no to things for fear of us missing out. I’ve tried to make as memories as possible as I can for my daughter because ultimately memories are all we have left. Have I made the best financial choices since my husband died? Probably not, no. It’s something that I’m dealing with. But can I look back and smile at the adventures we’ve had? Yes. And that’s what’s most important to me.

Yet nearly six years on, our lives are about to change and enter a new phase. On top of the increases in the cost of living. Money is something that is incredibly prevalent to me right now. For the first time since my late husband died, I’m feeling an enormous sense of responsibility to make the right decision for us. So many decisions were taken out of my hands in the early days that I didn’t really feel the pressure. But now I am. Should I find a new job? Should I sell my house? Should I take out extra on my mortgage? What can I do on my own to help fund the additional costs that I need to find from September this year? It’s actually quite mentally exhausting. Although, sorting and selling on Vinted and eBay is quite therapeutic (running joke that I can’t leave my house without a parcel to send) and I am getting a little bit of enjoyment from finding all the yellow and orange stickers in supermarkets when they sell off their food at the end of the day to help save costs. I think eight large sausage rolls for 25p has got to be my best find to date!

But putting levity aside for a second. My situation is not unique. There are thousands of young widows across the UK who suddenly find themselves without the salary of their partner or struggling financially. There are so many different situations. The families who didn’t have life insurance for a myriad of reasons. The families with ill health preventing them from working. The families where the parent has continued working but grief has been incredibly difficult for them so they don’t perform as they once did and so don’t get a pay rise or bonus. The families who are forced to sell their homes because they can’t afford to stay there. The families who desperately need to join WAY Widowed and Young, but can’t afford the £30 membership for the year so need to make an application to the Memorial Fund which was set up in 2017 to assist members to join the charity.

Like I say. Money. It’s an uncomfortable topic, isn’t it?

For those who haven’t been in my situation, you might also be thinking “but surely there is some benefit or support for widows.” And to be fair to you if you are thinking this, you’re right. But it only lasts for 18 months. The financial support I received for my daughter ran out towards the end of 2021 when she was 11-years-old. Assuming she stays in full time education until she’s 18 and then goes on to do a degree, that financial support will have run out 10 years before the end of her degree course. This will be funded out of student loans, my salary and my salary alone.

Let me tell you a little about the support that is available. It’s called Bereavement Support Payment (BSP). It was introduced in 2017 and replaced Widowed Parent’s Allowance, which provided weekly payments until Child Benefit ceased. BSP has not been updated since 2017 and indicative figures suggest that it is now worth £3,726.49 less in real terms for bereaved families with children. And even more staggering is that until February 2023, the Widowed Parent’s Allowance and BSP were only available to people who were married or in a civil partnership when their loved one died. It was only following a decade-long campaign by WAY Widowed and Young, the Childhood Bereavement Network, the Child Poverty Action Group and a coalition of other bereavement charities, that the government finally changed the legislation in 2023 so that cohabiting parents were entitled to the same support. Imagine that for just a second. You’ve been with your partner for a number of years, you have children together, you’ve built a life together but because you weren’t married or in a civil partnership, you were deemed ineligible for financial support from the government. I still find it absolutely staggering and am so grateful to everyone who campaigned for this change.

But back to what BSP does provide. The most you can get (depending on circumstance) and what I received, was a one-off payment of £3,500 followed by 18 monthly payments of £350. And while BSP has been extended to cohabiting couples with children, unmarried couples without children are still being denied support. People are still being penalised for their life choices in 2026. People are still suffering financially due to the death of a partner. Something needs to be done.

And that’s why I’m so supportive of Caroline Booth and Widows Fight. Caroline is spearheading a national campaign to reform BSP, which she says is “morally indefensible” in its current form and failing thousands of grieving families. She launched a petition a few weeks ago which has already received over 15,000 signatures. The government does now have to respond to this petition because it has to respond to all petitions that get more than 10,000 signatures. This is a great achievement so far. I only hope that it continues to gain momentum and leads to a real change for anyone who goes through what I have.

Continue reading The cost of being a widow

Goodbye 2025

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you ready for Christmas?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out now: Is Daddy Going to Be OK?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next chapter in my story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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