Love That Has Nowhere to Go

I wanted to share a little blog post about loss and grief, because this time of year always feels particularly heavy for me. If you know me, you’ll know that I lost my dad very suddenly in January 2021 to Covid. Nothing could have prepared me for losing him - it completely shattered my world. After he was gone, I existed, but I wasn’t really living. It took a long time to find joy again, and even longer to recognise the person I was becoming without him.

The years that followed have been incredibly hard and emotionally draining. In February 2022, I lost my cousin - someone who was more like a sister to me, as there were only a couple of years between us - and once again, my world was turned upside down. Then last year, in April 2025, I lost my uncle, my dad’s brother, on the very same day my baby boy was born. A day that held both unimaginable loss and overwhelming love. I just had to put something out there for others to read and possibly relate to because it is one of the most isolating things to go through, even if you're not physically alone.

When you read about grief, it’s often described as neat stages you move through until you’re “okay” again. But in my experience it isn't linear at all, it ebbs and flows. Some days it feels easier and some days it just hits you out of nowhere. You don’t ever truly “get over it” and that’s okay. It’s a reflection of enduring and everlasting love, and how powerful it is because they will live on in us. Little memories, talking about them and moments of remembering them is how we keep their spirit alive ❤️

Raw, Real Grief

Grief isn’t always quiet and reflective. Sometimes it’s sudden, sharp, and completely uninvited. It can hit you in the middle of a supermarket aisle, while you’re driving, or when a song you weren’t prepared for starts playing. One moment you’re there, the next you’re transported back to a time that no longer exists, holding back tears - surrounded by people who have no idea that your world has just shifted.

That’s one of the hardest parts of grief: it often feels like it’s only happening to you. The world carries on as normal while you’re standing still, trying to breathe through a moment that feels unbearably heavy. No one else hears the song the same way you do and has the memories that come with it. No one else feels the weight of that memory pressing in on your chest.

There’s no warning when grief will show up. It doesn’t ask permission. It just arrives - raw, real, and overwhelming - reminding you that love doesn’t disappear just because the person you love is gone. Sometimes you have to just hold on tight and ride the wave because it needs to be felt.

At times of special occasions; birthdays, Christmas etc. their absence feels overwhelming. Their presence used to fill the room - with humour, kindness, warmth, and thoughtfulness. Without them, their absence feels almost physical. There are certainly times of year that hold extra weight, these times can feel so daunting. The world keeps moving forward, but inside, everything slows. There’s often an unspoken expectation to “be okay,” when in reality, grief doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t disappear just because time passes.

I can't remember who I heard say this, but it was something along the lines of: "Grief can feel like carrying a heavy backpack everywhere you go. At first, the weight is completely unbearable - every step harder than the last. Over time, you become stronger. You learn how to carry it. You adjust. You find moments where it doesn’t feel quite as heavy. But you always know it’s there. And you always carry it with you." and that resonates with me so strongly.

My Dad - Brian

My Dad, was just an amazing human. He was thoughtful in a way that was effortless, kind without needing recognition, and always willing to do whatever he could for you. Nothing was ever too much trouble - he just showed up, quietly and consistently. He had a wonderful sense of humour, the kind that made ordinary moments lighter, and defused stressful situations so easily, being around him made you feel safe and cared for without him ever needing to say it out loud. He would light up every single room he walked into and was loved by everyone who crossed his path. He brought so much joy to all those that were fortunate enough to know him - it’s losing a presence, a steadiness, a warmth that can never truly be replaced. He gave me such a special childhood, we always had an amazing relationship (right up until the last moment we saw each other with his last words to me being “I love you so much Beck”), now I have my own children he will live on through memories that I have of him. My 3 year old loves to watch videos of his Grandad doing funny things and being silly and always talks about him - he knows he 'lives in the stars' which is such a hard concept to grasp, but I feel part of my Dad lives on through me and through my own sons, and that brings me so much comfort.

Millie

Millie was one of the most beautiful people inside and out that I have ever known, my best friend from a very young age - she was my cousin, but always felt more like my sister, we fitted together like cheese and crackers. We had endless silly sayings and expressions, something for every situation, and so much laughter that it became its own language. She brought an abundance of happiness and humour into my life. Some of my fondest memories are of our camping holidays when we were little, when everything felt timeless, safe, and full of joy. Millie was deeply kind and endlessly caring - the sort of person who would give you whatever you needed, even if it meant she went without herself. She gave so much of her time and heart to charity, and she truly was a real-life Disney princess and left a trail of fairy dust behind her because she really did bring magic everywhere she went.

Gerry

My uncle Gerry was truly a ray of sunshine. He was always the one dancing at family parties, the heart and soul of the room, completely lost in his own little world and at one with the music. He was endlessly interesting, and you could listen to him for hours. His laugh was unmistakable: short, sweet, just a “HA” - and it’s a sound that I miss so much. One of the hardest things now is missing those moments of him and my dad laughing together about whatever it may be. Their presence brought so much warmth and life, and without them, the absence is deeply and unmistakably felt. Knowing they’re back together now gives me a bittersweet comfort. I could talk about these beautiful humans all day long and I am so thankful for the incredible and special memories I hold of each of them.

Grief really is just love with nowhere to go...

https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/guides-to-support-and-services/bereavement/support-and-self-care/