Grief Doesn’t Follow a Calendar

Grief Doesn’t Follow a Calendar

Nobody really warns you about grief. You can read about grief, listen to podcasts, articles about grief management, perhaps comfort friends who are navigating the loss of a loved one. But until it actually happens to you, there is no way of knowing how you are going to deal with it.

It’s that simple.

That lump in the pit of your stomach. You know, that heaviness that just sits there. And you know what, however much you smile on the outside, it’s still there. Yet somehow, we are still expected to function in a normal world.

People don’t necessarily know how to be with you when you are grieving. They don’t know how to approach you or what to say, particularly in those first days and weeks. Hey, I don’t even know how to be with me either.

The first interaction with someone you haven’t seen since the passing of your loved one can be incredibly difficult.

Do they approach you and make it easier for you?
Do they wait and see if the tears come?
Do they mention it at all?
Do they wait and see if you say anything and then breathe a sigh of relief because you were able to ease their discomfort?

Perhaps it’s a very British thing…that putting on a front, masking it.

“No, no, it’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine”.

When actually, I’m not fine. It’s not OK. I’m not OK.

And sometimes, we find ourselves trying to comfort the other person because we are worried that they are uncomfortable around our grief.

It’s such a strange concept.

Sometimes it feels easier simply to not see anyone. Is that necessarily a bag thing? I don’t know, my verdict is still to be determined on that one. We can lock ourselves away and lick our wounds, wishing to be alone with our thoughts until we feel ready to re-emerge.

But life doesn’t work that way. We have duties. We have schedules. We have family situations and commitments. People are relying on us.

And so we carry one…we keep pushing…I’m fine.

Grief in a modern world

In times gone by, there was a greater acknowledgement of the passing of someone. There were rituals around the loss. People wore black for long periods of time and neighbours might drop round with food and their memories and stories as they checked on your well being. Perhaps those traditions weren’t always perfect but there was a recognition.

Today you may get a day off work for the funeral, maybe more than one day if it was an immediate family member. The days leading up to a death and the weeks, months and years afterwards can be incredibly difficult. We aren’t always given the space to properly see and feel into where we sit with that loss.

Ok, so society may not say aloud “she lost a parent but that was a couple of months ago, she needs to start getting her head back in the game” but I’m sure some think it. Time doesn’t heal that quickly, if at all.

I don’t know the answer and I’m certainly not a guru, I’m simply speaking from my own personal place of loss. I lost my Dad in November 2024, the day after his birthday when we joyously announced to him that it was snowing especially for him. Funny the little things you remember.

Then, unexpectedly, my Mum passed in hospital on 19th July 2026. Today, 23rd September, would have been her 84th birthday. It’s also the Autumn Equinox. Mum loved the Equinox. She loved to talk about the changing of the seasons. She would tell me how the nights were now drawing in as soon as we reached Summer Solstice as if we were all doomed to 6 months of pitch black. Now I find myself at the point where day and night are equal, bringing balance.

The balance of light and dark feels particularly poignant this year because grief is full of light and dark. It’s difficult to let go. Why should we let go? There’s no rhyme nor reason to how we deal with the loss of a loved one. All we can really do is honour them and honour ourselves by taking each day as it comes. And keep going.

I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m not fine.

Often we are functioning.
We are just functioning.

We have a smile on our face to make everyone around us feel comfortable, when actually inside we are not smiling.

We are covering.
We are making sure everyone else is OK.

And then the doors close, it’s just me and my husband and I feel flat. Empty. There’s that lump again. That hole. That void. That dark space.

Two months on, has it got any less? No, of course not. After a while people stop asking, life moves on and actually that really is ok. That’s life. This big, beautiful cycle of life. Here we are at this point of harvest, in September - Mabon, gently being reminded again that life is a cycle and that birth and death are part of that.

I know this.
I understand it.
I preach it.
But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier.

Where do we go from here?

Where do we go from here?
Will it get easier?

I think it will just become different. As we go through our loved one’s possessions, we try to understand the meaning behind things.

Why did they keep this all these years?
Why did this matter to them?
Photos and records and things that mean nothing to us, obviously meant something to them and suddenly become precious. Believe me, I’ve come home with bags of treasures, that aren’t. My sister and I developed a ridiculous-singsong “do you want it?” questioning to each other whenever we found something odd…says me with a stuffed Winnie the Pooh and Tigger each sitting in mugs that I brought back from Florida for them. I mean I have to house them don’t I?

We feel into the spirit of the person and it’s very, very hard to let go and that’s part of it. I kid myself that I will hold onto these items for a while, until I decide what to do with them - yes every single item has now been carefully placed on the bookshelves in our lounge! That’s grief.

The unexpected tears. Sprouting out of your tear ducts when you least expect it. The moment when something catches you completely off guard. Plants, fragrances, the “I must ring mum and tell her…” moments.

The days when you don’t want to see anyone because you simply feel miserable. I don’t want to be that miserable friend. And then a beautiful friend said to me:

“Hey, nobody is happy all the time. Those that seem to be are probably sociopaths or something! Friends are here for all of life’s ups and downs. So stop being silly. I’m here for happy and sad and angry and whatever else you’re feeling. Just come and have tea, you dingbat!”

Being an adult

• I don’t want to be.

• I don’t want to have dealt with the funeral directors, but we did.

• I don’t want to have met with and discuss my Mum with a Sacred Celebrant, but we did.

• I don’t want to have had to constantly chasing the hospital for the death certificate, but we had to.

• I don’t want to receive a call from the Coroner’s office, but I did.

• I don’t want to now have to wait for an inquest into her death, but here we are.

• I don’t want to meet with a solicitor and talk about probate and grown-up things, but we did.

• I don’t want to be an orphan but that’s how we both feel.

I just want my Mum.

Grief shouldn’t be rushed

I’m OK.
I’m taking each day as it comes.
And still I say: “Oh no, everything’s ok. I’m fine”.

I’m not, and you know what? That’s fine by me.

Eventually, I won’t suddenly start crying for no reason. I mean, present typing should be excused, right?

Eventually I will go a whole day without crying. Maybe multiple days, imagine that!

I will wake and say hello to Mum’s photo and feel ok. Those days will come and I’m not rushing them because grief shouldn’t be rushed. We live in a fast-paced society where we carry on. Get back to normality.

Perhaps it’s ok to actually sink into our grief.

Recognise it. Embrace it. Allow the tears to fall. Not say sorry for crying, just let those tears unashamedly run down our faces. Holding everything inside isn’t good for us. We all need those safe places where we can cry, shout, scream…I find the shower is a great outlet, not because I’m hiding away but because water soothes me. I’m a water sign and the ebb and flow of life, the tidal waves of emotions I feel, simply feel at home here.

Safe places are with friends who are happy for us to be mournful, to cry, they then crack a joke and make us laugh, then the tears flow and then there’s a quiet pause before having a nice cup of tea. Mum’s answer to everything. Gasping for a cup of tea. One of her last conversations with us was, “when can I have a cup of tea” …funny the things you remember…

On Mum’s Birthday

So here I am, on what would have been Mum’s 84th birthday, at the Autumn Equinox, honouring her in the simplest way I know. By sharing some words.

I don’t expect anything in return, I really don’t. I simply want to say this:

• If you are going through any form of grief, grieve how you need to grieve.

• If you don’t want to see anyone, that’s OK.

• If you snap at people, hopefully they will understand it’s not personal. You’re simply struggling to compute.

• If you are struggling, reach out to the people who can help you. Whether that’s friends, family or professional support.

• Look after yourself.

• Look after your energy..

• Spend the rightful time missing and loving your loved one because love doesn’t disappear when they do.

• Maybe we don’t have to get over it, we simply learn how to carry it.

  One day at a time.

  One memeroy at a time.

  One tear at a time.

  And that’s OK.

Kerry x