Six weeks. It’s been six weeks since Angé died. Long enough to feel the empty space beside me in every bed I lie in, every café I sit in, every walk I take. Long enough to realise that the absence of her voice doesn’t get quieter — it just changes tone. And long enough to start noticing something I didn’t expect:
I don’t trust myself to make good decisions.
Not always. Not right now.
For someone who used to pride himself on quick thinking, on pragmatic action, on reading the signs and knowing what to do — this has come as a bit of a shock. I find myself frozen over small choices, like where to go for dinner or whether to respond to a message. Or worse — I’ve made decisions that, in hindsight, were outright foolish. Extra drinks I didn’t need. Expensive items I wouldn’t normally buy. Commitments I said yes to that drained me. Invitations I declined that may have helped me.
And the most frustrating part? I often knew they were the wrong decisions — while I was making them.
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1. The Distorted Lens of Mourning
Grief distorts perception. It filters the world through a thick fog — what once was clear becomes confusing, and what once was easy becomes exhausting.
It’s not that I’ve suddenly lost intelligence or maturity. It’s that the criteria I use to make decisions have been rewritten by loss. Instead of weighing logic, cost, practicality, or long-term outcomes, I’ve found myself weighing only one thing:
Will this ease the pain, even for a moment?
That’s a dangerous compass.
When your heart is broken wide open, anything that looks like comfort — a purchase, a drink, a trip, a new experience, even a relationship — can look like the answer. But the pursuit of momentary relief often comes at the cost of long-term regret.
There’s a deep loneliness in grief that makes you want to fill the empty spaces with something. Sometimes it’s things. Sometimes it’s people. Sometimes it’s just noise. And sometimes, in that haze, you tell yourself: “Why not? Life is short.” Which is true — but also a terrible excuse when you’re already hurting.
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2. Emotional Override: When Logic Loses the Vote
I remember standing in a store in Prague, looking at a leather bag I absolutely did not need. It was beautiful. Expensive. Unnecessary. And yet, in that moment, the thought in my head was: You’ve suffered enough. Just get it.
It wasn’t about the bag. It was about trying to feel alive. About trying to gift myself something, anything, that said: You still matter. You still have pleasure. You’re still here.
The decision wasn’t made with logic. It was made by emotion. Emotion that had taken the wheel and turned logic into a helpless passenger.
It doesn’t make me stupid. It makes me human. But it also makes me vulnerable.
Grief can trigger an emotional override that shuts down the executive functions we usually rely on — reason, delayed gratification, foresight. Your inner decision-making committee has been hijacked by the part of you that’s in freefall, that just wants relief.
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3. The Two-Part Mind: Mourner and Manager
I’ve come to think of grief as having two minds:
• The Mourner — deeply emotional, in pain, reactive, impulsive, seeking comfort or escape.
• The Manager — rational, measured, experienced, pragmatic, long-term thinker.
During grief, the Mourner often shouts louder than the Manager. And when you’re in deep pain, it makes sense that you listen to the voice shouting for immediate comfort over the quiet, tired voice reminding you to be sensible.
But the key is to recognise which one is speaking.
Sometimes I’ve had to literally pause and ask myself: “Is this the Mourner making this decision? Or the Manager?” If it’s the Mourner, that doesn’t mean I ignore it — but it does mean I try to give myself space before acting.
Impulse + pain = poor decisions. But awareness + pain = space to breathe.
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4. Decision Fatigue: When Everything Feels Too Much
There’s another side to this, too. The opposite of impulse is immobility. And grief gives you both.
I’ve sat for hours trying to decide something small. What shoes to pack. Whether to go out or stay in. Whether to return a call. It feels absurd — I’ve run companies, made payroll, handled crises. Why can’t I decide what to do this afternoon?
Because grief is exhausting. Every decision costs more energy. Every choice feels heavier. And behind every option is the whisper: Would Angé have liked this? What would she say? Would this make her proud?
That inner dialogue turns even simple decisions into emotional minefields.
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5. The Money Trap
One of the strangest — and most expensive — effects of mourning has been my relationship with money. I’ve caught myself buying things I didn’t need, things that don’t match my values, things I would never have purchased six months ago.
Why?
Because sometimes the pain is so overwhelming, it tricks you into believing that consumption will fix it.
That new shirt? That dinner out? That extra ticket? That unnecessary upgrade? It’s not about the object or the cost. It’s about chasing a brief feeling of control, joy, or reward.
And sometimes, it gets out of hand.
I remember a dinner in Prague. I thought, I’ll treat myself tonight. A beautiful setting — a boat restaurant on the river, a window seat, perfect lighting, calm atmosphere. I ordered a glass of wine, but the waiter gently nudged me: “Why not a bottle?” I was alone. I didn’t need a bottle. But I was in that vulnerable I deserve this state — I said yes.
Then came the main course. I asked for a steak. The waiter told me they only had one cut available, and again, without asking any further questions, I just said yes. The food was good. The wine — some 2017 vintage I wouldn’t remember the name of — was smooth and expensive. And I enjoyed it.
But I ignored the small voice that said: Ian, just check the price. Just ask. I didn’t. And when the bill arrived, it cost me R6,500.
Yes, I was in Europe. Yes, the exchange rate made it worse. But it was a stupid decision — made because I was trying to buy relief. I told myself I was honouring Angé by treating myself, but the truth is: I was in pain and I was trying to medicate it with indulgence.
I walked away from that dinner feeling more alone than when I arrived — and poorer.
These moments pile up. You chase comfort through money, but they don’t fix anything. They just delay the grief for a few more hours and add new problems to manage.
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6. When to Say Yes, When to Say No
Another surprising symptom: saying yes to things that deplete me, and no to things that might have helped me heal.
I’ve agreed to events, conversations, even trips — because I didn’t want to disappoint others, or because I was chasing distraction, or because I didn’t trust my instincts anymore.
And I’ve said no to invitations that might have brought joy, or connection, because I was scared, tired, or just didn’t feel “up to it.”
Grief warps your intuition. It confuses your sense of what’s nourishing and what’s draining. You need to rebuild that compass — slowly and gently — by learning what feels right after the fact, and adjusting next time.
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6a. You’re Making Decisions Alone Now
There’s another layer to this that many don’t talk about — and it took me by surprise:
You’re now making decisions alone.
That sounds obvious, but it changes everything.
When you’ve lost a partner, a parent, a sibling, or a child — someone who used to help you decide, whether directly or subtly — you lose your sounding board. You lose the nod across the table. The shared glance that meant: “Yes, this is the right thing.” You lose the late-night debates over pros and cons. The comfort of being able to say, “What do you think?”
And you’re left with only your own voice — which, in grief, is shaky at best.
Suddenly you’re navigating choices that used to be shared. You don’t just feel the weight of the decision — you feel the weight of being alone in making it. And that can lead to overcompensation, hesitation, or reckless abandon.
You either lean too heavily on treating yourself, or you retreat entirely from taking action, because the confidence is gone.
It’s a good reminder to give yourself more grace — not because you’re incapable, but because the whole landscape of decision-making has changed.
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7. You’re Not Going Mad — You’re Mourning
There’s a cruel trick our minds play when we’re grieving: they make us question our own sanity.
When you can’t make decisions, when you forget things, when you feel inconsistent or irrational — it’s easy to think: Am I losing it? Is this who I am now?
But grief isn’t madness. It’s overload. And it’s temporary.
The mourning mind is flooded. Your bandwidth is reduced. The pain in your heart and gut hijacks your usual systems. But that doesn’t mean they’re gone forever.
You’re not going senile. You’re not becoming stupid. You’re adjusting to the aftershock of loss. And that adjustment takes longer than anyone expects.
Especially yourself.
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8. Strategies That Help
Here are a few strategies I’ve started to use — not always perfectly, but they help:
• Pause before purchase: If I want to buy something big, I try to wait 24 hours. Often, the urgency fades.
• Name the voice: I ask myself — is this decision coming from pain, love, or logic?
• Ask someone trusted: Sometimes I run a decision past a friend. Not for permission, just for perspective.
• Journal the impulse: Writing down what I want to do gives me a chance to explore the emotion underneath.
• Accept mistakes: I’ve done some dumb things. I’ll do more. That doesn’t mean I’ve failed. It means I’m grieving.
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9. Long-Term Consequences, Short-Term Grace
Mourning is not an excuse to ruin your life — but it is a reason to offer yourself more grace.
You will make some bad calls. You will waste some money. You will hurt someone unintentionally. You will agree to something you regret.
But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re in transition.
Give yourself short-term grace without ignoring long-term consequences. And when you do make a poor decision, try not to follow it with guilt or shame. Follow it with reflection — and maybe a little course correction.
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10. The Memory of Angé
Angé was always good at helping me think clearly. She had a way of grounding things, of asking one or two sharp questions that made the noise disappear.
Now I have to imagine her voice.
Sometimes I can still hear her in my head: “Why on earth are you buying that?” Or “Don’t say yes just to be polite.” Or “It’s okay to do nothing today.”
So maybe that’s part of the new decision-making process. Not just weighing logic, or emotion — but also weighing love. The kind of love that endures. The kind of love that wants you to be okay, even when the one who gave it is gone.
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Reflective Questions
1. Can you remember a decision you made recently that was driven more by pain than by clarity?
2. What purchases, actions, or commitments have you made in mourning that didn’t feel true to yourself?
3. How could you build a “pause system” to help you make wiser decisions, even during deep grief?
4. Who are the people you trust to give you perspective without judgment?
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Because of Angé
Because of Angé, I stop now before saying yes — and ask, “Is this for me, or for someone else’s expectations?” Because of her, I’m learning not just to survive without her — but to trust myself again. To rebuild the part of me that can say no. Or yes. Or wait. Because of her, I’m learning that the person who loved me would want me to lead my life — not lose it in the decisions I make.
