When someone says her name, she feels close again - not as “the loss,” but as my daughter. Many people are afraid to mention the person who died, but silence hurts more than tears. Saying their name is one of the kindest gifts you can give.

I didn’t collapse in year two. I accelerated. This is about the restlessness, overdoing, and quiet forms of avoidance no one talks about.

I miss you’ sounds small. Polite. Almost tidy. What it feels like is collapse

I’ve always trusted my body to carry me through. Until the day grief stopped me halfway up a mountain. This is a story about limits, listening, and the physical reality of loss.

December is loud, and grief is louder. This post is about the strange comfort of doing nothing, the safety of solitude, the weight of upcoming birthdays and anniversaries, and the quiet dignity of saying no - even to Christmas.

December grief is loud, exhausting, and often misunderstood. This is a personal, practical reflection on what actually helps grieving people - whether it’s the first year or the tenth.

I keep wondering what my life would look like if I truly accepted that Kahlia is dead - not in theory, but all the way in. The truth is, I don’t think my mind knows how. Acceptance isn’t a stage I’m aiming for. It’s a story people tell to make grief tidier than it is. I’m not interested in tidying the love out of my life.

A simple TikTok clip of Eeyore brought me to my knees … not because of the toy, but because of the meaning stitched into him. In grief, the smallest things become the heaviest. This is a story about symbols, triggers, and why the objects our loved ones touched can still undo us. Everyone has an Eeyore.

Joy after loss can feel like disloyalty. In this piece, I unpack the guilt that hits when I feel happy - the fear my daughter will think I’ve moved on, and the slow, brave practice of learning I can be happy and miss her. Joy doesn’t replace grief; it grows around it.

Grief is strange. You can feel three things at once; longing, purpose, and fear that if you stop, you’ll lose them all over again. Today I wrote about that quiet ache of trying to keep someone alive in words.

Eighteen months after losing my daughter, the rawness has softened - but the ache still lives under everything. This isn’t about “moving on.” It’s about learning to live with the absence, and finding the courage to keep carrying her through it all.

Grief isn’t just missing someone. It’s the fear they’ll be forgotten; and the small, stubborn ways we keep them alive. I say her name so the world won’t let it go.

After Kahlia died, I didn’t want to write.

I didn’t want to do anything; everything that looked like moving forward felt wrong and I simply wanted the world to stop, to honour her absence with silence.

When someone is diagnosed with cancer, people gather.
They make lasagne, they send flowers, they rally around the family with messages and fundraisers and hope.

But when someone struggles with their mental health, it’s different.
People don’t know what to do with that kind of illness.

I never cared much for gardening.
Too messy. Too slow. Too hard.

I never had a gift, I understand there could be joy in it, but it never came to me

‘If in doubt, weed it out’ was my mantra…..

But grief does strange things to you.
Makes you crave dirt under your fingernails.
Makes you want to see something grow
when everything else has withered.

I’ve spent hours — days, weeks, months — staring at the sky, trying to find her.
Trying to feel something. Anything.
Some days, I wonder if I’ve made the whole thing up.
If grief has painted stories over reality just to keep me breathing.

Some people think that when someone dies by suicide, they leave a note. A final message. Some kind of explanation to make sense of what doesn’t make sense.

Kahlia didn’t.

Grief doesn’t show up when it’s convenient. It doesn’t pencil itself in for the weekend or wait until the work meeting is over. It crashes through like a storm, uninvited and untamed, often at the worst possible time.