Sometimes grief sits quietly beside your life, letting you believe you’ve found your footing again. And then something reminds your body what happened, and suddenly the ocean feels deep all over again.

Yesterday was the launch of The Year After Kahlia. It was beautiful, proud, and full of people who care. And underneath it all was one quiet truth: I wished she was in the front row.

Since Kahlia died, my relationship with control has changed completely. I work harder, plan tighter, brace faster - not because I’ve become rigid, but because I learned the worst can happen and love can’t always stop it. This launch week has shown me how grief reshapes trust, time, and the need to hold the world still.

From the outside it looks like momentum. Inside, it’s still a relationship. This week I’ve been reminded that advocacy and ache can live side by side; microphones and whispers, movement and presence.

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.