There will be a day after your loss that will feel like the worst one yet.
You might think you’ve already had it — the day they died, the day of the funeral, the day you walked back into an empty home. But grief is unpredictable, and it has a cruel way of surprising you.
Today was mine.
I am trapped on a plane seat that holds more of her than it does me. The space smells the same, the armrests feel the same, and the hum of the engines sounds exactly as it did when we flew together. Every part of this seat is stitched with memories.
We used to pick a movie, press “play” together, and hold hands through the whole film. Sometimes, instead, I would gently rub her hair and she would rest her hand on my thigh, and we’d sit like that until the credits rolled — connected, comfortable, without needing words. She would always try to get Cointreau — sometimes the cabin crew had it, sometimes not — and she would light up when they did. She’d wander to the galley and come back grinning, her pockets full of chocolates, triumphant like a child who’d just raided a treasure chest. Then we’d lift the armrest, she’d rest her head in my lap, I’d keep rubbing her hair, and we’d try to sleep, feeling like the world couldn’t touch us.
Now I’m sitting here alone, my hands empty, the armrest cold, my lap useless. And the memories are relentless. It’s as if time has folded in on itself, and I’m back there — except she isn’t. The contrast between “then” and “now” is so sharp it feels like it’s cutting me from the inside.
I can’t leave. The plane isn’t landing any faster because I’m hurting. There’s no aisle to escape to, no corner of the cabin that isn’t haunted by her. It’s not just emotional pain — it’s physical. My chest feels tight, my stomach churns, my skin feels too thin. This is not grief in the abstract. This is grief in a pressurised cabin, with nowhere to run.
And here’s what I wish I’d known before this day:
The “worst day” won’t give you a warning. It will simply arrive, uninvited, in the middle of an ordinary moment — or, worse, in the middle of a situation you can’t step out of. That’s why you need to prepare for it.
How to Prepare for the Worst Day
You can’t stop it. But you can plan for it. These are the anchors I wish I’d set before I took my seat today:
- Have a grounding ritual
Something small, portable, and yours. A song that pulls you back to calm. A smooth stone in your pocket. A phrase you repeat under your breath like a rope in the dark. - Carry a “rescue memory”
Not the one that destroys you — the one that steadies you. A moment with them that makes you smile, even now. Something unshakably good. - Have an exit in your head
Even if you can’t physically leave, have a mental place to go. Imagine a beach, a quiet garden, a mountain trail. Train your mind to walk there when you can’t walk away. - Give yourself permission to look strange
If you need to close your eyes for two hours, hold your own hand, or stare out the window without speaking, do it. Survival beats appearances. - Tell one person
Before you travel, before you go into a locked room, before you sit in a situation you can’t escape — tell one trusted person, “If I message you, I’m in trouble.” Worst days aren’t the time to be stoic.
The Truth About the Worst Day
The worst day will make you believe you are back at the start. It will convince you that you have undone all your “progress.”
It hasn’t.
It’s just that grief, like the tide, comes back hard and high when it feels like it. You can’t stop the tide. But you can have a lifeboat ready.
Today, my lifeboat was the thought that this flight will land.
Not just the literal one I’m on now — but the long, hard, unending-feeling journey of mourning. I know there will be other flights, other days, other moments where I will sit in this kind of pain again. But they will also land. And I will step off.
The worst day is survivable. But only if you expect it.
And now you know it’s coming.
Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I know that even in the most ordinary spaces — like an airline seat — love can create a world of its own.
Because of her, I learned that connection doesn’t need words, just the steady weight of a hand in yours, or the warmth of her palm on my thigh.
Because of her, even this worst day carries a sweetness inside it — proof that I once sat here with my best friend, my love, my home, at 30,000 feet, and the world really couldn’t touch us.
You Will Have the Best Day — And It Will Surprise You
Grief trains you to expect heaviness. To wake with a weight that doesn’t lift. To look for what is missing before you even look outside. That’s why the good days feel almost uninvited — as if they’ve slipped past grief’s guard and landed in your lap when you weren’t watching.
This one began with a long walk on the beach. The tide was out, leaving endless sand and a shimmer of water that stretched like a mirror into the horizon. Each step crunched and hissed, and for once my body didn’t feel like lead. The sea air filled my lungs in a way that felt like beginning again.
I wasn’t alone. Good company walked beside me — not trying to fix, not asking for explanations, just matching pace, shoulder to shoulder. Conversation rose and fell like the tide: sometimes laughter, sometimes silence, both equally welcome.
At one point I left the sand for the sea. The cold water shocked me awake, but then carried me, lifted me. Floating there, I felt something I hadn’t in weeks — not happiness, not joy, but a lightness. A reminder that my body was still alive, still capable of more than surviving.
We found a café afterwards, the kind with wooden tables, sandy floors, and food that tastes better because you’ve earned it. Lunch stretched long — stories shared, bread passed across the table, the kind of simple abundance that doesn’t need decoration.
It may not have been the “best day” of my life. That title belongs elsewhere, in memories I carry with me. But it was a day to remember. A day when I could see, just faintly, that a future was possible.
Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I notice these days. I let them count. I don’t dismiss them as ordinary. She taught me that beauty often hides in simplicity — in a walk, a swim, a shared meal. And even now, when grief is sharp, I can feel her reminding me: this, too, is worth remembering.
