Posts in category: Book of Mourning

Grief is universal — and yet deeply personal. Everyone who mourns does so from the unique vantage point of who they are, shaped by their relationships, their histories, their emotional patterns, and significantly, their age, gender, and personality. This chapter is about how to support those who are grieving in ways that match not what you think they need, but what they truly need — informed by their life stage and their emotional identity.

Support is not one-size-fits-all. The person in front of you might be carrying grief quietly, or loudly. They might need touch or silence. They might want words or action. Your task is not to assume — but to notice, adapt, and show up in a way that fits.

The more we understand the interplay between gender, age, and personality, the better our support becomes — not because we follow a formula, but because we offer empathy that is tuned.

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1. Why Gender and Age Matter in Mourning

Many people approach grief as though it follows a straight line — shock, sadness, acceptance, done. But grief doesn’t move in a predictable pattern. And it doesn’t show up the same in every person.

How someone experiences loss is filtered through their identity. That includes gender and age, but also things like personality type, life experience, and cultural background. Still, age and gender remain major influences on how people express and manage grief — and how they want to be supported.

A young woman in her twenties might need someone to listen for hours. A widowed man in his seventies might simply want someone to sit beside him without saying a word. A grieving teenager might shut themselves in their room and blast music to drown it out. A middle-aged mother might continue to show up for others while slowly falling apart inside.

Understanding these patterns doesn’t mean making assumptions. It means showing up better, listening more deeply, and recognising the context of the grief.

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2. Supporting by Gender

Men in Mourning

Men are often conditioned — culturally and emotionally — to be silent in grief. They’re taught that strength is stoicism, and that vulnerability is weakness. Many grieving men carry enormous emotional pain that has no outlet. It gets buried under work, responsibility, distraction, or silence.

You may not see the tears. But you might see the sleepless nights, the increased drinking, the quick temper, or the blank stare at nothing. These are the signals.

How to support a grieving man:

• Be physically present, even if emotionally quiet.

• Suggest activities that allow conversation without eye contact — walking, driving, fishing, fixing things.

• Avoid pushing for emotional expression. Just let him know you’re available, without pressure.

• Encourage healthy routines: food, sleep, fresh air, connection.

• Ask simple, practical questions like, “Do you want to go for a coffee?” or “Can I help with the garden?”

Understand that when men grieve, it may not look “emotional” — but it is. Deeply so. Support means not forcing words, but leaving space for them to come when ready.

Women in Mourning

Women are often seen as “better mourners” because society allows them to express sadness more freely. But that comes with its own weight. Many women feel a need to hold things together — for children, siblings, friends. They may take on the administrative work of death while pushing their emotions aside. They might cry in one moment and plan a memorial the next.

Support for women means recognising both their emotional labour and their need to be cared for themselves.

How to support a grieving woman:

• Be a safe space where she can fall apart — without judgment.

• Offer to handle tasks so she doesn’t have to carry everything: groceries, school runs, paperwork.

• Let her talk — and don’t rush the storytelling. Grief often loops and repeats.

• Remind her that she doesn’t have to be strong all the time.

• Validate her experience: “You’re doing enough. You don’t have to do everything.”

Crying is not a weakness. It’s a strength in disguise — the courage to feel.

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3. Supporting by Age

Children (Under 12)

Children grieve in pieces. Their grief is not continuous — it comes in waves, in questions, in behaviour. One moment they’re sad, the next they’re playing as if nothing happened. This doesn’t mean they don’t care. It means they’re learning how to make sense of loss with brains still under construction.

How to support grieving children:

• Use honest, simple language: “He died” is better than “He went to sleep.”

• Expect repetition: the same questions, again and again.

• Offer play-based grief tools: drawing, puppets, stories, memory jars.

• Give reassurance that they are loved and safe.

• Include them in rituals. Let them light a candle, write a note, attend a funeral if appropriate.

Don’t expect adult emotional behaviour. Let them be children, even as they grieve.

Teenagers (13–19)

Teenagers are caught between childhood and adulthood. Grief often crashes into this already-fragile transition. They may become angry, moody, withdrawn, or rebellious. Or they may pretend everything is fine. Grief can show up as defiance, anxiety, or complete disengagement.

How to support grieving teenagers:

• Respect their space but don’t disappear.

• Offer presence without pressure — “I’m here if you want to talk.”

• Validate their emotions, even the messy ones.

• Help them channel grief into music, art, sport, or writing.

• Avoid lectures. Choose curiosity over control.

Teenagers often test your consistency. They want to know you’ll still be there, even when they push you away.

Young Adults (20s–30s)

This group often grieves while building — careers, relationships, independence. Their grief may be invisible because they “look fine” or seem busy. But internally, they might feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under them.

How to support young adults:

• Be flexible and informal. Invite, don’t impose.

• Offer real companionship: a trip, a dinner, a walk.

• Encourage reflection: “What would your person have said?” or “What helps right now?”

• Don’t expect a timeline. Let them grieve at their pace.

• Stay connected, even if they seem okay.

Grief at this age is often quiet. Be the person who sees what others miss.

Middle-Aged Adults (40s–60s)

In this life stage, people are often juggling work, parenting, relationships, and eldercare. Grief becomes something they have to squeeze in — between meetings, chores, and caring for others. But it doesn’t make the grief less real.

How to support them:

• Step in to relieve daily burdens. Do something — don’t just say “Let me know.”

• Offer listening without needing them to explain.

• Respect their exhaustion. Grief is heavy. So is responsibility.

• Let them take a break — emotionally and physically.

• Validate both their grief and their competence: “You don’t have to do this alone.”

They may be the ones holding up the world. Ask who’s holding them.

Older Adults (65+)

Older adults often face loss after loss — spouse, siblings, friends, even adult children. Grief here is layered. It can also trigger reflections on their own mortality, loneliness, or the fear of being forgotten.

How to support elderly mourners:

• Be present consistently — a regular phone call, visit, or meal together.

• Let them talk about the past. Ask open questions. Don’t rush their stories.

• Help with practical needs — medical appointments, shopping, companionship.

• Encourage rituals that honour memory — photo albums, letters, shared recipes.

• Watch for depression masked as fatigue or silence.

Elderly people don’t need to be cheered up. They need to be remembered and included.

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4. Supporting by Personality: Introverts vs Extroverts

Grief is not only shaped by age and gender — it is also deeply influenced by personality.

Some people need solitude. Others need connection. Some want to speak their grief aloud. Others need to walk it out in silence. Understanding someone’s personality gives you a map for how to walk beside them.

Introverts in Mourning

Introverts often retreat inward when grieving. They may avoid large gatherings, prefer deep one-on-one conversations, or process emotions privately through journaling, music, or simply thinking.

How to support introverts:

• Give them space. Don’t crowd.

• Offer thoughtful, low-pressure support: “I’m thinking of you — no need to reply.”

• Respect their need to process before speaking.

• Don’t interpret quiet as a lack of grief.

• Offer simple rituals: planting a tree, lighting a candle, writing a letter.

Sometimes just knowing someone sees their quiet grief is enough.

Extroverts in Mourning

Extroverts often reach out when grieving. They may want to talk, host memorials, be surrounded by friends, or share their emotions actively.

How to support extroverts:

• Join them. Don’t wait to be asked.

• Let them talk — and listen, fully.

• Suggest group activities: cooking meals together, walks, storytelling evenings.

• Understand their grief may feel louder, but is no less complex.

• Check in often. They may seem busy but still need deep support.

Don’t Assume — Ask

Whether someone is introverted or extroverted, the best question remains:

“What does support look like for you right now?”

And if they don’t know? Be patient. The answer often comes with time.

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5. The Danger of Roles

In families and communities, mourners are often assigned roles: “the strong one,” “the emotional one,” “the organiser,” “the mess.” These labels can trap people.

Let people be more than one thing. Let them be shattered and stable. Weepy and capable. Numb and articulate. Let them change from day to day. Don’t hold them hostage to your expectations of how they should grieve.

The best support is flexible, patient, and free of judgment.

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6. Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I learned how differently people mourn.

Her daughters grieved in quiet reverence, often sitting in silence, eyes full of stories they hadn’t yet found the words for. Her son mourned in a more solitary way — not with long conversations, but with presence. He didn’t say much, but he was there. Her friends — those beautiful, brave women who loved her fiercely — mourned by cooking, cleaning, comforting, and stepping in without asking. They surrounded us, not with noise, but with care.

And I… I mourned on long walks, speaking her name into the wind, searching the trees for signs she was still near.

We each loved her in our own way. And so, we each mourned her in our own way.

There is no correct way to grieve. There is only your way.

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A Final Word: The Matriarch’s Grief

And then there is the mother.

Angé’s mother — the strong one, the matriarch, the steady centre of our family. She stood with grace through the unthinkable: the death of her only daughter. While others fell apart, she stayed upright. While others wept, she reached for tissues and offered tea. She kept busy. She stayed composed. And in doing so, she protected everyone but herself.

We all leaned on her, not realising that the weight she carried was far heavier than ours. Her loss wasn’t just of a child — it was of her daughter, her friend, her joy. She didn’t talk about it often. She didn’t need to. You could see it in the set of her shoulders, the silence in her eyes, the quiet way she folded the laundry that Angé had once worn.

It is often the strongest among us who are the most overlooked in grief. We assume that because they’re upright, they are okay. But strength is not the absence of sorrow — it is the ability to keep going despite it.

If you see someone being “the rock,” remember this: even rocks crack under pressure. Even matriarchs need soft arms to fall into.

Introduction

“People look at you differently when you’re older and grieving. They think you’re strong. They think you’ve had your life. They think you’ll be okay. But the truth is, I lie awake at night wondering what I’m supposed to do with the years I have left.”

This chapter isn’t about how others can support you. It’s about what it feels like to be the one left behind—and how your gender, your age, your history, and the expectations around you shape the experience of mourning.

Because mourning doesn’t feel the same at 28 as it does at 62. And being a man doesn’t carry the same mourning script as being a woman. Our losses are all personal, but our social patterns still play a role in how we carry them—and how we are allowed to carry them.

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1. If You’re a Man, You’re Supposed to Be Strong

I’ve lost count of how many people have told me I’m “doing well” because I haven’t broken down in public. They mean it as a compliment, but what I hear is, “Don’t fall apart. Don’t cry. Don’t show weakness.”

For many men, especially those of us raised in a generation where emotions were private and tears were for funerals only, mourning is a lonely place. We walk out of the room when the crying starts. We keep ourselves busy. We try to “manage” grief like a to-do list. It doesn’t mean we don’t feel—it means we don’t always know how to feel in a way that’s socially acceptable.

Some of us become what I’ve come to call the “lone elephant”—moving slowly away from the herd, quietly disappearing from social spaces, losing connection. We don’t want to be a burden. We don’t want to be pitied. And we don’t always know how to ask for help.

The truth is, we can be crying on the inside while looking composed on the outside. But in a world that measures our “coping” by how dry our eyes are, that pain goes unseen—and often, unspoken.

Loneliness is dangerous. You start to wonder why you should keep going. You don’t want to wake up to an empty bed again. You start to think, What am I even living for now? That question gets louder with age.

And here’s the twist: the very thing we’re told to avoid—opening up—might be the thing that saves us.

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2. If You’re a Woman, You’re Expected to Be Open—but Still Graceful

For women, the expectations are different but just as complex. Society gives more space to cry, to share, to talk. But there’s often an invisible line you’re not meant to cross. You can be heartbroken, but you’re not supposed to be angry. You can be vulnerable, but not inconvenient. You can talk about your loss—but not too much, or too long.

And for older women, the message can feel eerily similar to what men receive: You’ve had your turn. You’ll be fine. But they’re not fine. They’ve lost decades of shared life, and with that, a language, a rhythm, a presence. The kids call and visit—but eventually they return to their own lives. And she’s left with the ache of empty rooms and no one to ask what to make for dinner.

Women often create support circles—friends, family, shared grieving spaces. But even in these circles, grief can begin to feel performative, even exhausting. You might feel the need to bring tea, bake something, host, be “pleasant” for others, even when your own energy is gone.

There’s pressure to “move forward” and “find the blessings.” And that pressure weighs heavier when you’re told, explicitly or not, that you’re “strong enough” to handle this on your own.

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3. Mourning Young: Life Was Just Beginning

If you’re young—in your 20s or early 30s—the grief may feel like a derailment. You had plans. You imagined a life with this person. You were supposed to build something together—careers, homes, children. And now, it’s gone.

People might call you resilient. They say, “You’re young—you’ll meet someone again.” Or “You have your whole life ahead of you.” They don’t understand that you didn’t want “someone”—you wanted the person you lost . They don’t understand that the life ahead of you now feels fractured, uncertain, unfamiliar.

Grieving young often means grieving without peers. Your friends are going to weddings, having babies, building futures. And you’re learning how to survive loss. It’s isolating.

And yet, there’s also something in you that still wants to live. You can feel that contradiction—grief and energy fighting inside you. You might have days where you want to stay in bed forever, and others where you impulsively book a trip, start a course, or go dancing until 2 a.m. That unpredictability can be confusing—but it’s not wrong.

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4. Mourning in Midlife: Holding Others While Falling Apart

If you’re in your 40s or 50s, grief often collides with responsibility. You might be raising kids, holding a demanding job, looking after elderly parents. Your own mourning becomes something you push to the back of your mind, because dinner has to be made. Because someone has to stay strong.

This is the age where you’re likely to feel split in half—one part of you breaking quietly, the other part still getting things done.

You may have support from children, siblings, friends. But you also may feel that everyone’s leaning on you. You may not get the chance to fall apart properly. Or if you do, you might feel like you’re letting others down.

You mourn in stolen moments—after school runs, in the bathroom, while driving. You smile through meetings. You cry in the laundry room. You scroll through their old texts while stirring the soup.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you start wondering who you are now. Because you weren’t just their spouse or partner. You were part of a team. A duo. Now, it’s just you. And you’re not sure what you’re supposed to rebuild—or how.

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5. Mourning Later in Life: The Quietest Loneliness

There’s a unique ache to losing someone in your 60s, 70s, or beyond.

Not because grief hurts more—but because of what it takes away. The habits. The years. The long, quiet companionship. The language of glances. The way they knew your morning routine, your favorite chair, your deepest fears.

And now they’re gone.

People will say things like, “You had a good run.” “At least you had those years.” Or worse, “You’re lucky—you’re still healthy.”

But you don’t feel lucky. You feel like the best part of your day—the voice in the room, the shared cup of tea, the evening walks—has been ripped away. You’re told you’re strong, but you feel tired. Very tired.

And the most haunting question arises:

“What am I living for now?”

You’re not planning careers. You’re not raising kids. You’re not traveling the world. You’re just… here. And sometimes the idea of years ahead—without them—feels less like a gift and more like a sentence.

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6. The Deep Inner Question We All Face

No matter your age. No matter your gender. No matter your culture.

There is one question grief eventually asks us all:

“Who am I now?”

Because the loss strips away not just the person you loved—but the version of yourself that existed with them. And in their absence, you’re left to rebuild not just your future, but your identity.

The rebuilding looks different for all of us. Some find solace in faith. Some in routine. Some in creativity. Some in silence.

But the first step is acknowledging that this mourning experience is yours. It doesn’t need to look like anyone else’s. It is real. And it matters.

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7. Support Structures: The Different Nets We Fall Into

Grief is heavy, but the net that catches us when we fall looks very different depending on our age and gender.

If you’re a man—especially an older man—your support group may be limited. Other men often feel uncomfortable if you open up about deep emotions, tears, or loneliness. The cultural script says, “Shake it off, keep busy, don’t dwell on it.” That means your circle may talk to you about sport, politics, or the weather, but not about the gaping hole in your life. For some, the most effective lifeline is professional help—a counsellor, therapist, or grief group—because it creates a safe, structured space where emotion is not only allowed, but welcomed.

For older women, the pattern is different. The social group often instinctively gathers—friends come by with meals, sit with you over tea, and encourage you to share your memories. There is a stronger cultural permission for women to express grief openly, which means they may have a more immediate and consistent emotional safety net. But even here, there are challenges. Sometimes the support fades too quickly, or friends are so focused on “cheering you up” that they forget you still need to talk about your loss months or years later.

For the younger generation, support often comes from family—especially parents, if they are still alive—and from their closest friends. Younger mourners might find themselves having long late-night conversations with siblings, spending weekends at their childhood home, or leaning on one or two loyal friends who are willing to sit in the sadness without trying to fix it. But they also face the reality that many of their peers haven’t experienced deep loss, so they may not fully understand the depth or duration of grief.

In every case, the kind of support available—and the way it is offered—is shaped by unspoken cultural rules. Recognizing those patterns doesn’t just help us see where we might be missing support—it also gives us permission to go and find it elsewhere, without guilt.

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8. Support from Faith and Religious Communities

For many people, faith communities become a natural place to seek comfort during mourning. Whether it’s a church, mosque, synagogue, temple, or meditation group, the shared belief system can make it easier to speak about loss in a way that feels understood.

Older mourners often have the strongest ties here. They may already know the minister, priest, imam, or group leader personally, and the rituals of the faith—prayers, memorial services, scripture readings—can feel like a steady hand to hold. For men, the structured and purposeful nature of these gatherings can make it easier to be present without feeling pressured to talk too openly. For women, the warmth of fellowship and shared prayer circles can feel deeply grounding, especially in the weeks immediately after the loss.

Younger mourners might connect differently. For some, the religious space is where they grew up, so returning there feels familiar and comforting. For others, especially if they’ve drifted away from organized religion, the rituals may feel distant or even uncomfortable. Yet even then, the presence of a faith community—people bringing food, offering prayers, or simply sitting beside you—can create a sense of belonging in a time when life feels unanchored.

The strength of religious community support often lies in its rhythm. The weekly services, the regular check-ins, the anniversaries remembered in prayer—these become touchpoints that remind you that your loved one’s name, and your grief, are still being held by others.

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Conclusion: Your Way is the Right Way

You may be the lone elephant. Or you may gather your herd. You may cry daily. Or not at all. You may plant trees. Or you may travel. Or you may stay home and pull grass from the edge of the deck while talking to the person who is no longer there.

You are allowed to miss them in whatever way you need.

You are allowed to ask the hard questions.

You are allowed to say, “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

And you are allowed to keep going—not because you’re strong, not because others say you must—but because deep down, something in you still hopes for joy.

Even if you don’t see it yet.

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Reflective Questions

1. Has your age or gender shaped how others expect you to grieve? How has it shaped how you see yourself?

2. Have you felt like the “lone elephant”? What does reconnection look like for you?

3. What are the hard questions you’re sitting with? (e.g., “What am I living for now?”)

4. What kind of support do you wish you could ask for, even if you haven’t yet?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I’ve learned that mourning is shaped by a hundred things—age, gender, personality, culture. But underneath it all, there’s one truth: mourning is the echo of love that had nowhere else to go.

Because of Angé, I no longer expect my grief to look like anyone else’s. And I no longer judge anyone else’s way. I’ve seen how a woman in her 30s grieves differently from a man in his 70s—and yet the longing, the emptiness, the search for meaning, are all the same.

Because of Angé, I’ve come to believe that no matter your age, the years ahead are not a sentence—they are an unwritten chapter. And while I don’t yet know the shape of mine, I know that the pen is still in my hand.

Camino Reflection: A Planless Path

I was walking on the Camino without any real plan for what I was going to do once I finished and got back to Africa. At first, that felt fine — just walk, reflect, survive the day. One foot in front of the other. But as the days passed and the end of the trail crept closer, I started to notice something shift inside me. Without a plan, I began to feel increasingly unsettled. I couldn’t shake this sense of unease. I felt more and more anxious, and strangely — even in the beauty of Spain — more and more depressed.

The truth is, the future looked bleak. I didn’t know what I would return to. I didn’t know what to look forward to. And when you don’t know what you’re moving toward, it’s hard to keep walking, even on a Camino.

But then I began talking to people — just simple conversations. Someone would say, “What’s next?” and I’d answer, almost instinctively, “I think I’ll visit an old friend. I might open a bottle of wine with someone. I’ll probably go on another little adventure.” And strangely, just speaking those ideas — putting small points of joy into the future — made everything lighter.

The more I planned, the more hopeful I felt. The more I imagined, the less afraid I became.

And suddenly, the path ahead felt not only possible — it felt exciting.

That’s when I understood this simple but vital truth:

In mourning, happiness doesn’t happen by accident. You have to plan for it.

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The Grief–happiness Conflict

When you’re deep in grief, happiness feels dangerous. There’s a strange loyalty to sadness — a sense that if you dare to smile, you’re forgetting. If you enjoy something, you’re moving on too soon. It’s as if laughter has become betrayal, and excitement a kind of guilt.

But here’s the hard truth: grief and happiness are not enemies. They are companions on the same road.

Grief is the cost of love. Joy is the reward of remembering that love well.

Joy doesn’t mean you’re “over it.” It means you’re in it, and still choosing to live.

And that choice — to feel excitement, to plan happiness — is not a sign of weakness. It is one of the bravest decisions you’ll make in mourning.

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Why Planning happiness  Matters

You won’t stumble upon joy by accident, especially not in the fog of loss. That’s why planning happiness matters — not just emotionally, but psychologically and biologically.

Here’s what happens when you plan for happiness:

• You create anticipation. Your brain begins to release dopamine as soon as you imagine something pleasurable. This anticipation becomes a source of energy and motivation.

• You reclaim agency. Loss makes you feel powerless. Planning something — even small — gives you back control.

• You balance your emotional load. Grief may still weigh heavily, but a planned happiness lightens the load, even if briefly.

• You reconnect with time. Grief distorts time — making every hour feel endless. Looking forward helps you re-enter the rhythm of life.

• You connect with people. Many happy moments  — dinners, trips, gatherings — are shared experiences. Planning them means you’re not only connecting with others, but also reconnecting with your own sanity. Social interaction can be a lifeline in mourning, reminding you that you still belong to the living world. Isolation can make grief heavier; connection can make it lighter, even for a moment.

When you plan for happiness, you’re not just filling your diary. You’re quietly making a declaration:

I am still here. I am still part of life. I am still capable of feeling good things.

Without a plan, days stretch endlessly and painfully.

With a plan, they start to gather shape — and you begin to remember that there is still more to come.

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The Three Kinds of happiness to Plan For

Let’s break happiness into something manageable. It doesn’t have to be grand or profound.

It just has to be real.

1. Small happy moments  (Daily and Weekly)

These are your everyday joys. They are the gentle rituals that remind you you’re alive — and that life is still good in moments.

• A cup of your favourite tea in the same sunny spot every morning.

• Lighting a candle and listening to one special song before bed.

• Friday movie night with your pet, your blanket, and no expectations.

• A walk with a friend who knows how to listen — not fix.

These happy moments  don’t change your life. But they steady it.

They are your scaffolding.

2. Medium happy moments  (Monthly)

These require a little intention and effort. They’re slightly bigger than daily comforts but still very doable.

• A weekend trip to the sea or the mountains.

• Hosting a small dinner with two or three people who lift your spirit.

• Enrolling in a class — writing, dancing, painting, cooking.

• Visiting a market, museum, or concert you wouldn’t usually attend.

.  Booking a show with a friend

They break up the monotony of grief and inject movement into your life.

They are your momentum.

3. Big happy moments  (Quarterly or Annually)

These are your future hopes. Your acts of courage. Your reasons to rebuild.

• A journey — like a Camino.

• A project — like planting a garden or writing a book.

• A tribute — like starting something in their memory.

• A reunion — meeting up with those you’ve lost touch with.

They ask more of you. They stretch you. But they also show you what you’re capable of.

They are your vision.

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Letting Go of the Guilt

Here’s the tricky bit: many mourners struggle not with planning, but with feeling allowed to plan.

You might think:

• If I go to the beach, does it mean I’ve forgotten them?

• If I fall in love again one day, does that undo what we had?

• If I laugh at dinner, does that mean I’m okay — and shouldn’t be?

This guilt is common. But it’s also misplaced.

Happiness  doesn’t replace grief.

It lives alongside it.

It says: I carry this loss, and I still choose to see the sunrise.

You are not betraying your person by planning joy.

You are honouring them by living well, as they would have wanted.

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Reframing happy: It May Look Different Now

One of the hidden challenges of post-loss life is that joy often comes in unfamiliar forms.

The things that once excited you may now feel empty or irrelevant. That doesn’t mean something is wrong. It just means you’ve changed. And your joy will have to change too.

Where once you loved the crowds, now you may crave quiet.

Where once you filled your calendar, now you may protect your space.

Let that be okay.

Don’t chase the old joy.

Be open to new happy moments  finding you in unexpected ways.

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Practical Tips to Start Planning Joy

If the thought of happy still feels far away, start gently. Here are some ways to ease into it:

1. Use Your Calendar — Start with one small plan per week. Physically write it down — it makes it more real.

2. The happiness Jar — Fill a jar with small slips of paper, each with a simple happy action: “Go for a swim,” “Eat ice cream on the porch,” “Message an old friend.” Pull one when you feel stuck.

3. Create a “Looking Forward To” List — Make a simple list of 10 things you’re looking forward to — real or imagined.

4. Ask for Help — If planning is hard, ask a friend to plan with you. Let them suggest or book something.

5. Tie happy actions to Memory — Do something your person loved: visit their favourite place, listen to their favourite song, plant their favourite flower. Happy moments  can be remembrance, too.

6. Plan with People, Not Just for Yourself — Planning something exciting by yourself is good — it gives you freedom, control, and space to recharge. But planning something exciting with a group of friends can be even better. A road trip, a weekend away, a day hike, or even just joining a group that’s going somewhere interesting — these kinds of plans not only give you something to look forward to, they also deepen your connections with others. It’s the double benefit: you get the happiness of the activity itself, and the happiness of shared company. Both matter in grief, because mourning can make you retreat and isolate. Being intentional about including others in your plans helps you stay socially connected while still creating experiences that lift you.

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When the Plan Fails

Not every plan works. Sometimes you book something — and you just can’t go. Sometimes you show up — and cry through the whole thing.

That’s okay.

The goal isn’t perfection.

The goal is intention.

You tried. That counts.

Try again. You will get stronger. And the happiness  will become more natural with time.

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Reimagining Your Future

Grief flattens your future. It takes away the picture you’d painted — the birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, holidays. That imagined life is gone.

But a new life is still possible.

You can build a new picture. And that process starts with small, intentional happy moments .

Think of it like this: you’re planting seeds. Some will grow. Some won’t. But if you keep planting, a garden will emerge.

One walk. One lunch. One invitation. One plan.

And then another.

This is how you slowly remember that you are still here.

And life — though changed — is still yours.

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Final Thoughts: happiness Is a Discipline

happiness isn’t just a feeling. ITS a discipline. A decision. A rhythm.

You may not feel ready. That’s okay. But start anyway.

Put a marker in the future — a cup of coffee, a reunion, a dance.

Give your brain something to anticipate.

Give your heart something to stretch toward.

And know this: planning happiness is not moving on. It’s moving with.

Grief in one hand. Joy in the other.

Both are real. Both are valid. Both are yours to carry.

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Reflective Questions

1. What’s one small happy moment I can plan for this week?

2. What brings me excitement or energy, even for a moment?

3. When was the last time I felt truly happy? What was happening?

4. What new happy moments might I be open to, now that I’ve changed?

5. What’s one future event I could begin planning — even if it feels far away?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I will plan the coffee date. I will book the dinner. I will go on the road trip. I will say yes to the hike, even if my heart still aches. I will light the candle, pour the wine, and raise a glass to her. Because of Angé, I will keep choosing joy — not instead of grief, but because of it.

She lived well. She planned well. She laughed with her whole body. She knew that joy is not a luxury — it’s a way of honouring life.

So I will too.

Because of her

It began innocently — a single glass of wine late at night.

At first, it was a comfort.

A softening of the edges.

A pause from the relentless weight of mourning.

I told myself it was just a way to unwind.

But then came the second glass.

Then the habit.

The new routine.

The reward at the end of a long, lonely day.

That’s when I realised something hard and honest: mourning doesn’t just leave you sad.

It leaves you vulnerable — to escape, to numbing, to habits that offer relief.

And when those habits offer even a moment’s break from the pain, they are tempting enough to become dangerous.

This chapter is not just about addiction in the clinical sense.

It’s about the shadows that mourning casts — the ways we try to soften grief’s edges and sometimes get stuck in patterns that no longer serve us.

Some are obvious. Some are subtle. All deserve attention.

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1. Why Mourning Makes Us Vulnerable

Grief is overwhelming. It is full-body. It is spiritual. And it hurts.

When a loved one dies, the body and brain go into survival mode.

The loss is not just emotional — it’s biological. The brain floods with stress hormones.

Sleep becomes erratic. Appetite changes. Decision-making becomes foggy.

The pain doesn’t let up.

And humans, by nature, seek relief from pain.

We are wired to survive discomfort.

So in grief, when the emotional pain feels like too much, it’s natural to reach for something — anything — that offers escape.

A drink. A sleeping pill. A dopamine rush from online shopping or binge-watching.

Even over-exercising or overworking can become subtle addictions when they’re used to numb rather than process.

That is why mourning opens a back door to addiction: not out of recklessness, but out of desperation for stillness or comfort.

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2. What Addiction Looks Like in Grief

Addiction during mourning doesn’t always look like rock-bottom.

Often, it looks like:

• One more drink than usual — just to sleep.

• Needing noise — constant TV, podcasts, or music to drown out silence.

• Obsessive distractions — scrolling through social media for hours or playing mindless games.

• Overeating or under-eating — food becomes either a comfort or control mechanism.

• Compulsive organising, exercising, or working — masking productivity as purpose.

• Risky behaviours — gambling, reckless spending, or sudden sexual activity that feels out of character.

Here’s the hard part: some of these behaviours are normal parts of early mourning.

It’s only when they become patterns of escape — and we can no longer function without them — that they begin to mirror addiction.

Addiction in grief is often not about the substance or behaviour itself, but about why we’re doing it.

Are we avoiding pain or processing it?

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3. The Addiction–Grief Loop

Once the cycle begins — numbing the pain, temporary relief, followed by guilt or shame — it often becomes a loop:

1. Pain: Intense grief, loneliness, fear.

2. Numbing: Drink, scroll, eat, gamble, shop.

3. Relief: Temporary. Fleeting.

4. Crash: Guilt, self-disgust, feeling even more alone.

5. Repeat: To escape the guilt, we return to numbing.

Over time, this loop solidifies. It becomes a routine.

And mourning, instead of being a process of slow acceptance and life remodeling, becomes a fog where the pain is simply avoided — never transformed.

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4. Energy, Perseverance, and the Hidden Cost of Addiction

Mourning already demands extraordinary energy.

We’ve spoken in earlier chapters about perseverance — the willingness to keep going despite everything — and how good emotions like gratitude, joy, and hope need to be nurtured alongside the hard emotions like anger, sadness, and fear.

All of that takes fuel.

Add addiction into the mix, and suddenly you’re carrying a double weight.

Not only are you dealing with the grief itself, you’re now spending precious energy battling the hangover, the fatigue, or the mental fog from your coping mechanism.

And the worst energy drain of all? Sitting in guilt or self-pity after giving in.

The shame of that extra drink, the hours lost to pornography, the regret after reckless spending — these don’t just make you feel bad. They push you into a dangerous spiral: guilt → depression → hopelessness → suicidal thoughts.

This spiral is real, and it’s fast.

Perseverance requires you to guard your energy as if it were gold.

Every bit of strength you waste fighting guilt could be used to take a walk, call a friend, plant something, create something, or simply rest without shame.

If you can design your mourning in such a way that you’re not constantly recovering from your own coping tools, you’ll have far more energy for the life-rebuilding that grief demands.

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5. Replacing Addiction with Real Comfort

The opposite of addiction is not sobriety.

It’s connection.

It’s presence.

It’s being able to sit with the pain without running.

That doesn’t mean you have to sit in sorrow all day.

But it means slowly, gently, replacing the escape mechanisms with tools that honour your grief — not suppress it.

Some tools to begin that replacement:

• Stillness practice: Even five minutes of silence a day can help you face your grief directly.

• Connection rituals: Lighting a candle, visiting a memory spot, writing a letter to your loved one.

• Naming the emotion: “I’m lonely.” “I’m scared.” “I feel numb.” Naming it removes its power.

• Grief walks: Take a walk with no phone. Let yourself think of them.

• Creativity: Journaling, painting, gardening — any activity that transforms emotion into expression.

And when the need to numb arises, pause. Ask yourself:

• What am I trying to avoid right now?

• Is there a gentler way to care for myself?

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6. Where to Get Help

If you recognise that your way of coping has slipped into something addictive or harmful, help is available — and it’s closer than you might think.

• Talk to someone you trust: A friend, family member, spiritual leader, or mentor who will listen without judgment.

• Seek professional support: A therapist, psychologist, or counsellor experienced in grief and addiction can guide you without rushing your process.

• Join a grief group: Many communities and online spaces host meetings for people going through loss — you’ll hear from others who understand.

• Look into addiction-specific support: Groups like Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), Narcotics Anonymous (NA), SMART Recovery, or local rehab services can help even if you think “it’s not that bad.”

• Use helplines:

• In South Africa: SADAG Suicide Crisis Line — 0800 567 567

• In the UK: Samaritans — 116 123 (freephone)

• In the US: Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — 988

You don’t have to “hit rock bottom” to deserve help.

You only have to be human — hurting, and willing to reach out.

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7. Rebuilding from the Ashes

Once you acknowledge that mourning has led you into an addictive pattern, you’ve already taken the first, hardest step.

The next steps are small. Quiet. Steady:

• Limit access: Remove the apps, the bottles, the credit cards, the triggers.

• Tell someone: Even if it’s one trusted person, say, “I need help.”

• Create routines: Replace the addictive behaviour with rituals of remembrance.

• Rest and nourish: Eat well. Sleep. Be kind to your body — it’s carrying a lot.

• Celebrate progress: Even one day of choosing connection over numbing is victory.

Grief doesn’t vanish. But it changes shape.

And when you choose presence over addiction, you give yourself the best chance to carry grief in a way that still honours life — yours, and the life of the one you lost.

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8. Turning Addiction Into Drive

Not all addictions destroy.

Some fuel life. Some build joy.

The energy and focus that once went into destructive patterns can be redirected into what some people might call habits — but which you might find yourself “addicted” to in the best possible way.

When you strip away the shame of the word, addiction is simply repeated action with emotional reward.

The key is making sure the reward is life-giving.

Think about what it would be like to be addicted to:

• Walking on the beach every morning — feeling the sand under your feet and the salt air on your skin until you crave it in the best way.

• Going to the gym — not out of punishment, but because you’ve learned to love the strength and clarity it gives you.

• Creative work — painting, writing, woodwork, gardening, music — losing yourself for hours in something that leaves you better, not emptier.

• Learning — reading, taking courses, exploring topics you’ve always been curious about.

• Acts of kindness — making it a personal game to brighten someone’s day every single day.

• Collecting — seashells, postcards, recipes, bird sightings — things that connect you to life and make you smile.

These aren’t escapes in the way destructive addictions are.

They don’t leave you drained, ashamed, or further away from your grief.

They become rituals of presence — things you actively look forward to, that remind you you’re still living.

Replacing bad addictions with good ones works best when you:

1. Start small — commit to something enjoyable you can repeat daily or weekly.

2. Anchor it — do it at the same time each day so it becomes a natural part of your rhythm.

3. Link it to meaning — connect it to your loved one if it helps:

• “I walk the beach for both of us.”

• “I paint because they believed in my creativity.”

4. Celebrate the streak — keep track of how many days or weeks you’ve done it. That little dopamine hit will now come from a life-giving source.

The truth is, our brains don’t care whether the addiction is for something harmful or healthy — they simply respond to repetition and reward.

Your job now is to make sure that the rewards you crave bring you closer to life, not further into numbness.

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Conclusion: Not a Straight Line

Mourning and addiction often travel together. Not because you are weak — but because pain looks for escape.

The journey of grief is not a straight line. Neither is the journey of letting go of harmful coping tools. There will be steps forward and backward. Days when numbness still seems like the best option.

But you are not stuck. And you are not alone.

Every time you choose to stay present with your grief — even for a moment — you are honouring your love, your loss, and your life.

You are building something new.

Not despite the pain, but through it.

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Reflective Questions

1. What habits have I used to avoid the pain of mourning? Are they still serving me?

2. What would it look like to replace those habits with ones that support my grief process?

3. Who can I talk to — openly and honestly — about my struggles?

4. What small comfort can I offer myself tonight that doesn’t involve escape?

5. What positive addiction could I begin today that would make my life richer?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I stopped pretending I was fine.

I realised the wine glass wasn’t helping.

The endless TV shows weren’t healing.

What helped was walking. Writing.

Telling the truth — even the ugly bits.

Because of Angé, I started facing my mourning head-on.

And when I stopped running from it, I began to feel again — not just the pain, but the memories, the gratitude, and, eventually, the moments of peace.

Because of Angé, I learned that my energy was too precious to waste on guilt, shame, or self-pity.

I learned that perseverance, good emotions, and even the courage to ask for help all need fuel — and I could choose where that fuel went.

Because of Angé, I now crave the things that make me more alive — the walks, the creativity, the kindness — and I let myself be “addicted” to them.

There have been nights, quiet and dark, when I’ve sat alone with the weight of Angé’s absence and thought:

“What if I just went to be with her?”

Not in a dramatic way. Not even in a planned or persistent way. Just a passing thought that somehow, ending it might offer release — or even reunion. That maybe, just maybe, if I stopped trying so hard to survive this pain, I could go where she has gone and escape the ache that seems to never lift.

I didn’t act on it. I didn’t make a plan. But the thought was there. Fleeting, but real.

And I think I’m not alone in this.

This is for anyone who has felt the crushing pressure of mourning and quietly wondered if the pain might end with them. You are not broken. You are not weak. You are not alone. Let’s talk about it.

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Mourning Is Not Something You Get Over

We often talk about grief as if it’s a temporary thing — a season you pass through, a wave you ride out. But mourning is different. Mourning is a state of being. When someone you love dies, you enter into mourning — and you will stay there, in some form, for the rest of your life.

It’s a bit like being an alcoholic. You don’t say, “I used to be one.” You say, “I am one,” even if you’ve been sober for 20 years. Mourning is like that. You learn to live in it, with it, around it — but it never really leaves. Some days, it sleeps quietly. Other days, it wakes up and takes over.

Mourning is not a finish line you cross. It is not something you graduate from or recover from. It is more like a room inside your house. Some days you visit it. Some days you live in it. Some days you manage to close the door for a while. But it’s always there.

And like any room you inhabit long enough, mourning becomes familiar. You learn its creaks and shadows. You learn how to breathe within it. You learn how to make space for joy without dismantling your grief.

Just like an alcoholic learns to live without drinking — but always with the awareness that the desire might re-emerge — mourners learn to live with the possibility that the sharp edge of despair can return at any moment. This is especially true when life brings new losses, or loneliness becomes too heavy to bear.

So we must shift our thinking. Mourning is not a crisis to be fixed. It’s a state to be understood, honored, and lived within. And within that state, suicidal thoughts may return — not because you’ve failed to “move on,” but because you are still loving, still remembering, still aching. And that, in itself, is an act of survival.

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The Normalcy of Suicidal Thoughts in Mourning

Mourning is not only sad — it is relentless. The loss of someone you love can completely upend your life’s purpose, your identity, your daily routines, and your reason to get out of bed. And in that deep fog, many people — even those who’ve never struggled with mental health before — will have a thought like:

• “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

• “What’s the point if they’re not here?”

• “I want to go where they are.”

This is not abnormal. It is not shameful.

These thoughts are a psychological response to being overwhelmed by emotional pain. The brain, desperate for relief, sometimes whispers an escape route. It’s not so much a death wish as it is a wish for the pain to end.

And while these thoughts can be frightening — and should be taken seriously — they do not mean you are broken beyond repair.

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When It Becomes Dangerous

Suicidal ideation lies on a spectrum. Many mourners will have passive thoughts like, “I wish I could just sleep and never wake up.” These are not the same as active thoughts like, “I am going to take my life tomorrow, and here’s how.”

But there’s a sliding scale. And if not addressed, passive thoughts can spiral into deeper despair. That’s why it’s so important to recognize the signs when suicidal thinking shifts from fleeting to focused:

• You start making plans or researching methods.

• You withdraw completely from loved ones or activities.

• You feel hopeless — like things will never improve.

• You begin giving away possessions or writing goodbye notes.

• You feel a strange sense of calm, as if a decision has been made.

If you are anywhere near this line, please know this: you need and deserve help — now, not later. You do not have to figure this out alone.

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Reasons We Stay

There are people, like me, who have fleeting thoughts of ending their lives — but don’t follow through. Why not?

It might be:

• A child who still needs you.

• A friend who texts every day.

• A dog who looks up at you, tail wagging.

• A dream you haven’t lived yet.

• A promise you made to the person you lost.

Sometimes we stay because we’re angry at them for leaving. Sometimes we stay because we still want to experience something — even if it’s just next week’s sunrise.

Sometimes we stay for no noble reason at all. We just… do. And that is enough.

Sometimes we stay because of the simple, everyday reasons — because there is a cup of coffee we want to enjoy tomorrow. Because someone smiled at us at the grocery store. Because the dog needs feeding. Because we haven’t seen the ocean in years.

For some, the reason to stay is not about others. It’s about spite. About not letting the world or fate or grief win. About staying upright just to prove we still can.

Others stay because they know — deep in their bones — that the one they lost would never want their life to end this way. They feel the echo of their person’s voice saying, “Please don’t do this. Live for both of us.” And that echo becomes their anchor.

And then there are those who stay simply because someone else once stayed for them. And so they do the same — passing the baton of survival forward.

Even if you don’t feel a deep sense of purpose right now, staying alive gives you the possibility of finding one.

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Strategies to Cope When the Thoughts Come

You don’t need to be strong. You just need a system. Here are some strategies to use when you feel like the pain is pulling you under:

1. Tell Someone — Call a friend. Text someone. Say, “I’m struggling right now, and I don’t want to be alone with this.” You don’t need to explain everything. Just start the conversation.

2. Delay Action — Make a pact with yourself to do nothing for 24 hours. In that time, talk to someone, sleep, eat something, take a walk. Just give life a little more time to shift.

3. Change Your Environment — Get out of the house. Go somewhere unfamiliar. Even walking to a park, café, or bookstore can offer enough sensory distraction to loosen the grip of suicidal thinking.

4. Write a Letter to the One You Lost — Tell them about your pain. Ask them for help. Write as if they could read it. This act can feel like connection — like they are with you, rather than waiting for you somewhere else.

5. Keep a “Reasons to Stay” List — It could be a child, a future adventure, unfinished art, a promise. Write them down. Keep them close.

6. Talk to a Professional — There are therapists, counselors, and doctors trained to help you hold this pain. You do not have to qualify for help. Pain is enough reason.

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What Help Looks Like

Many people avoid seeking help because they’re afraid of being hospitalized, judged, or dismissed. But mental health support isn’t always about crisis response.

Support can look like:

• A bereavement support group.

• A therapist who understands grief and trauma.

• A doctor who helps manage sleep and depression.

• A crisis line that talks you through your darkest hour.

• A friend who shows up, listens, and doesn’t try to fix it.

Here are some resources to consider (localize as needed):

• South Africa: SADAG Suicide Crisis Line – 0800 567 567

• United States: 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Dial 988

• UK: Samaritans – 116 123

• International: www.suicidestop.com has country-specific helplines

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Talking About It Helps Others Too

If you’re reading this and have survived suicidal thoughts in mourning, your story matters.

You are proof that people can sit in the pain and still live.

Talking about it breaks shame. It shows others that this is not just them. That mourning — real mourning — sometimes takes us to the darkest places in our minds. But that it’s possible to stay. To live. To even laugh again. And to carry their memory — not as a reason to leave, but as a reason to stay.

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Make Your Compelling List to Stay

If you know — even quietly — that you might be one of those people who are prone to depression or suicidal thoughts, don’t leave this to chance. Don’t wait for a good day to remind you that life is worth holding onto. Build your Compelling List to Stay now.

This isn’t just a “reasons to live” list.

It’s your survival blueprint — the one you keep where you can see it every day. On your bathroom mirror. Next to your kettle. By the front door. On your phone’s lock screen. Anywhere your eyes land when you need them most.

Here’s what makes it compelling:

• Things that make your heart beat faster in the best way — the adventures you still want to have, the places you still want to see, the foods you’ve never tried, the books you want to read, the person you might one day meet.

• Commitments to others — the promises you’ve made to children, friends, or loved ones. The unspoken promise that you will not leave them with the kind of pain you’re feeling now.

• Unfinished dreams — the business idea you never launched, the art project you’ve half-painted, the garden you’ve only just planted.

• Daily joys — morning coffee, the smell of rain, the first bite of something sweet, the sound of your favorite song, the feel of clean sheets after a long day.

• Your people — names and faces of those who would shatter if you were gone. Even if you feel far from them, they exist. And your absence would be a wound they carry forever.

• The “what ifs” worth living for — what if things get better? What if you laugh again? What if you fall in love again? What if the best day of your life is still ahead?

This is not about guilt. This is about giving yourself tangible, visible, undeniable reminders that life is still offering you something.

Every time you look at that list, remember: it’s not just for you. It’s for the people who will breathe easier knowing you stayed. For the stranger who will meet your kindness one day and never forget it. For the future version of yourself who will be grateful you didn’t give up.

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Please, Stay

Stay for the sunrise you haven’t seen yet.

Stay for the dog who will wait by the door.

Stay for the story you haven’t told, the child who will need your voice, the friend who doesn’t know they will lean on you next year.

Stay for the meal that will make you close your eyes with pleasure.

Stay for the dance you haven’t yet danced.

Stay because you are part of the thread that holds someone else together.

Stay, because the world without you will be missing something it cannot replace — you.

Stay, because leaving doesn’t end the pain; it transfers it.

Stay, because there is still beauty, still surprise, still possibility.

And stay because, even if you can’t feel it now, there will be a moment — maybe tomorrow, maybe next year — when you will breathe in and think, “I’m glad I’m still here.”

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Reflective Questions

1. Have I had fleeting thoughts of not wanting to continue? What triggered them?

2. Who is one person I could reach out to if these thoughts come again?

3. What are three small reasons I might choose to stay — even just for today?

4. If the person I lost could talk to me now, what might they say about my pain and my future?

A Final Word: You Are Still Here

Mourning is a thief, but it’s also a teacher. And one of the things it teaches us is that life does not stop just because one part of it has.

There is no shame in hurting.

There is no shame in thinking about suicide.

There is only danger in silence.

So, if this is you — if you’ve had those thoughts — please know that you are not weak, crazy, or broken.

You are wounded.

And wounds, when seen and tended to, can heal.

Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I choose to stay.

Even when it hurts.

Even when I don’t know what tomorrow holds.

Because she would want me to live.

Because there is still beauty in the world.

Because someone else might need me to stay too.

Because if you stop walking this road, you don’t just pause — you disappear. Perseverance is not a luxury in mourning. It’s a requirement for survival.

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Opening Reflection: The Endless Night

Three weeks after Angé died, I lay on the couch, motionless. Not crying. Not sleeping. Just… still.

My phone buzzed twice — messages from friends checking in. I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. The idea of replying felt like trying to lift a car with one hand.

Everything inside me wanted to give up. Not in the dramatic sense of giving up on life — just giving up in life. On breakfast. On brushing my teeth. On effort.

I was tired of being tired. Tired of being brave. Tired of being alone.

But eventually, I got up. Slowly. I showered. I opened the curtains. I made toast. And I sat in the sun.

That was perseverance — not some epic act of triumph. Just the quiet, stubborn decision to keep going when everything in you wants to stop.

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1. Perseverance Is a Decision, Not an Accident

Some people think perseverance is something you either have or you don’t — like eye colour or height. But in grief, perseverance is not genetic. It’s not luck. It’s not fate.

It’s a decision.

A decision you will make again and again — sometimes several times in the same day.

You choose to get up.

You choose to eat.

You choose to answer a message.

You choose to walk out the door.

Every choice is an act of will. Every choice is a refusal to stop walking this road.

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2. Perseverance Is Strength of Character and Mind

In mourning, perseverance is not just about “being strong” in some vague, inspirational way. It’s the strength of character to show up for yourself when no one else is watching, and the strength of mind to keep making decisions that pull you forward instead of letting you sink.

Perseverance is also a muscle.

It grows with use.

It atrophies with neglect.

Every small action — even brushing your teeth when you don’t feel like it — is a repetition that strengthens your endurance.

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3. Grief Isn’t a Sprint — It’s a Relentless, Uneven Marathon

There’ is a  starting gun,  but no marked course. No medal waiting at the finish line.

Some days you’ll walk with energy. Some days you’ll crawl. Some days you’ll just stand still.

Perseverance is understanding that progress in grief is not measured by speed. It’s measured by the fact that you have not stopped.

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4. The “Phone-a-Friend” Rule — Building Your Safety Nets

There will be days when your decision to persevere feels too fragile to stand on its own. That’s when you need systems in place.

Here’s what helps:

• Pick two or three people who know the depth of your grief and ask them to check in regularly.

• Give them permission to push you when you retreat too far.

• Set visual triggers — a note on the fridge, a reminder on your mirror, a phone alarm with your own recorded voice saying, Keep going — stopping is not an option.

• Use a “phone-a-friend” moment whenever you notice you’ve been silent or withdrawn for too long. Make the call, even if all you say is, “I’m here.”

These aren’t signs of weakness. They’re acts of strategy. They keep you from quietly slipping into a life where nothing matters.

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5. Perseverance Is the Opposite of Depression

Depression whispers, “Why bother?”

Perseverance answers, “Because my life still matters.”

Perseverance doesn’t mean pretending you’re okay. It means refusing to surrender to the pull of nothingness.

Every time you move — even in the smallest way — you are choosing connection over withdrawal, hope over silence, and life over disappearance.

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6. Getting Up Again — The Quiet Strength of Repeat Effort

Grief exhaustion isn’t only in the heart — it’s in the body. You feel heavy. Sluggish. Weighed down.

And yet:

• You pour a glass of water.

• You take a walk to the corner.

• You fold the laundry.

• You text a friend.

None of it will make headlines. But each act is a small muscle movement in your daily strength training.

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7. Setbacks Will Come — And You Will Survive Them

You’ll think you’re doing better — and then a date, a song, or a scent will rip you open again.

That’s not failure. That’s grief being grief.

Perseverance means you don’t shame yourself for breaking. You recognise that this is part of the loop. You let yourself fall — and then you rise again.

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8. Perseverance Is Practiced, Not Perfect

Some days you’ll nail it. Other days you’ll hide. That’s okay.

Perseverance is about showing up often enough that the practice itself becomes a habit. Like any habit, the more you use it, the stronger it gets.

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9. Perseverance as a Daily Act of Remodeling

Every act of perseverance lays a brick in the life you’re building now:

• Eating a meal? Brick.

• Creating a new ritual? Brick.

• Speaking their name out loud? Brick.

Over time, these bricks form the foundation of a life that still contains joy, colour, and purpose — even with grief as a permanent resident.

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Closing: Choosing Again, Every Day

This road is the hardest you’ll ever walk. But stopping is not an option. If you stop, the part of you that still wants to live will wither.

Perseverance is your survival. It’s your strength of character and mind. It’s the decision you make — today, tomorrow, and for as long as you breathe — to keep walking.

Because of Angé, I know perseverance is not heroism. It’s not a burst of courage. It’s the steady, stubborn, unshakable choice to keep moving forward — with sorrow, with hope, and with love.

Because of Angé, I

Perservere

Moments of light — unexpected, undeserved, and absolutely allowed.

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Opening Reflection: The First Full Moon After

The first full moon after Angé died came quickly.

Too quickly.

It had only been a one week. I was still moving through the days like I was underwater. Time was doing strange things — moving fast, then slowing down, then looping back and repeating itself. But the calendar didn’t care. Nature didn’t pause. And so, the moon rose.

That evening, I walked outside barefoot. The grass was cold underfoot. I had a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, not because it was freezing, but because I needed to feel something around me. I looked up.

There it was.

The same moon Angé would never miss. The one she waited for every month, always noticing it first. She’d gasp when it rose over the trees — not for show, but because it genuinely thrilled her. No matter how often she saw it, she greeted the full moon like an old friend.

And in that moment, standing alone on the lawn, I smiled.

I smiled at the moon. I smiled because I could hear her voice, see her face, feel her joy. It hurt — of course it did. But it also filled me. I felt warmth. I felt closeness. I felt… something good.

I didn’t expect that. I didn’t plan it. It just came.

That was my first glimpse of the good emotions that still live in grief — not instead of it, but inside it.

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1. Why Good Emotions in Grief Feel So Strange

In the beginning, everything hurts. Grief is full, total, and engulfing. You brace yourself for tears. You learn to expect sudden waves of pain. You assume that mourning is an unrelenting grey sky — and anything brighter must be wrong.

So when something good slips in — a laugh, a moment of peace, a memory that warms instead of wounds — it feels confusing.

You might wonder:

• “Am I allowed to feel this?”

• “Does this mean I’m forgetting?”

• “If I enjoy this moment, am I betraying them?”

These thoughts are common. You’re not broken or heartless for wondering.

But here’s the truth:

Grief doesn’t exclude goodness.

It makes space for it.

In fact, sometimes it’s grief that deepens your capacity for good emotions — because you feel more, not less. The volume of life is turned up.

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2. What Are the Good Emotions in Grief?

When we speak of “good emotions,” we’re not talking about an endless stream of happiness or a life untouched by sadness. In grief, good emotions often arrive side-by-side with pain, tangled together like threads in the same fabric. They can be subtle or striking, fleeting or enduring. They are the moments that lift you, soften you, remind you that life is still present, even in the shadow of loss.

▸ Joy

Joy in grief is quieter and more sacred than everyday cheerfulness. It’s not the kind of joy that comes with a party or a big achievement — it’s the quiet, steady pulse of life breaking through the sadness. It might be hearing a song you both loved and smiling at the memory of dancing in the kitchen. It might be noticing the way sunlight falls through a window and remembering that beauty exists without asking permission. Joy matters because it gives you proof that even after devastation, your heart can still move. It’s not a betrayal of your mourning — it’s a tribute to the love that made you capable of feeling it.

▸ Gratitude

Gratitude in grief is the moment you recognise what you had and who stood by you. It’s the awareness that even though you lost something irreplaceable, you were blessed to have it at all. Gratitude might arrive when a friend brings food without asking, or when you recall the warmth of being deeply loved. It softens the sharper edges of grief and opens a window for gentler air to come in. Gratitude doesn’t erase loss, but it can anchor you when the pain feels too vast — a reminder that love was real, and kindness still exists in your world.

▸ Love

Love is the constant. It doesn’t fade when the person dies; if anything, it intensifies. You might find yourself speaking to them in your head, feeling their presence in the smell of their old sweater, or suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to protect the memories you shared. Love in grief is raw and undiluted — it’s the very reason you’re hurting. But it’s also the reason you get up, keep breathing, and look for meaning in the days ahead. Love gives grief its depth, but it also offers you the strength to carry it.

▸ Forgiveness

Forgiveness in mourning often surprises people. Sometimes it comes because the loss changes your perspective on what’s worth holding onto. Old arguments, petty misunderstandings, and grudges suddenly feel like heavy baggage you no longer want to carry. This might be forgiveness of others — for what they did or didn’t say, for disappearing when you needed them — or forgiveness of yourself, for the moments you wish you could redo. Forgiveness is not permission for the harm to have happened; it’s permission for yourself to stop living inside that harm. It clears space for peace to enter, even in grief.

▸ Caring

Loss can crack your heart wide open. Caring in grief can be intense and unexpected. You might find yourself more patient with strangers, more willing to listen, or more eager to protect someone else from pain. You might reconnect with distant friends, or call a family member just to check in. Sometimes caring is directed at yourself — allowing rest, seeking help, or eating something nourishing. Caring becomes a form of survival, a way of stitching connection back into a life that has been ripped open.

▸ Optimism

Optimism in grief is fragile, but it’s powerful. It’s the small belief — sometimes only a whisper — that tomorrow might offer something worth seeing, doing, or loving. It doesn’t demand that you forget your loss; it simply suggests that your future can still hold good moments. Optimism might be as small as deciding to plant flowers this spring, or as large as planning a trip you once dreamed of. It’s hope dressed in everyday clothes, quietly reminding you that rebuilding is possible.

▸ Pride

Pride in grief is not arrogance — it’s respect for your own resilience. It’s the moment you realise you have survived another day you thought would break you. It’s looking back and seeing how far you’ve walked with this weight on your shoulders. You may feel pride in the person you lost — their courage, their kindness, their humour — but pride in yourself matters too. It’s fuel for the journey forward, proof that you’re carrying their love and your own life at the same time.

▸ Peace

Peace is rare at first. It may last only a few seconds — a deep breath that doesn’t hurt as much, a morning where the ache feels lighter, a sunset that wraps you in stillness. In grief, peace is the moment you realise you are okay right now, even if you won’t be in an hour. It doesn’t mean you’re “over it.” It means your soul found a brief resting place. The more you let yourself feel these small moments of peace, the more they will grow.

▸ Excitement

Excitement in grief is a rediscovery — the rush of waking up in the morning with something to look forward to, something that stirs the old “yes, let’s do this” feeling. It might be a long-planned trip, a favourite hike, a new project, or even just meeting someone you’ve missed. It’s the same thrill you felt before loss, but now it carries a new weight — because you know how precious these moments are. Excitement isn’t about escaping grief; it’s about recognising that joy can be active, energising, and even physical again. It’s the kick in the gut, the tightening in your chest, the smile you can’t stop — a sign that you’re not only surviving, but beginning to live again.

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3. Where These Emotions Show Up

These feelings don’t usually arrive during grand moments. They tend to sneak in:

• While walking in nature.

• When lighting a candle in their memory.

• While holding a cup of tea in silence.

• While planting something new in the garden.

• When hearing their laugh in your mind.

• During stories — the ones that make everyone laugh and cry at once.

You might find them during mundane chores. Or driving. Or sitting in your car outside the grocery store, staring at the steering wheel.

They’re not predictable. But when they come, they matter.

They are reminders: You are still alive. And they are still with you.

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4. Let the Good Emotions In — Without Guilt

Mourning is not a punishment.

It is a response to love.

And love invites light, not just sorrow.

So when a good emotion arrives, don’t push it away. Don’t apologize for it.

Let it land. Let it stay for a while. Let it remind you that you’re human. That grief hasn’t robbed you of everything.

Here’s what helps:

• Acknowledge it. Say to yourself, “This feels good. And that’s okay.”

• Speak it out. You can whisper to them — “You would’ve loved this.”

• Share it. Text a friend and say, “I just laughed at something I remembered. Needed that.”

• Remember their joy. If they loved sunsets, laughter, dancing — then your joy honours theirs.

You are not moving on.

You are moving with.

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5. How Mourning Evolves Emotionally

In the early days, pain is everywhere. But slowly — not on a schedule — grief begins to evolve.

You cry less. But more deeply.

You laugh more. But more quietly.

You remember more. And hurt less.

The good emotions don’t cancel the grief. They layer over it. They sit beside it.

You don’t stop mourning.

You simply become someone who carries both grief and life. And the emotions become more balanced — sorrow and hope, ache and awe.

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6. The Role of Good Emotions in Remodeling Life

We’re not healing — we’re remodeling our lives. And part of that remodeling involves deciding what good emotions you want to nurture.

So ask:

• Can I be someone who practices kindness more intentionally?

• Can I let optimism grow, even when I still feel unsure?

• Can I forgive without needing closure?

• Can I love without needing to prove it?

The good emotions are not an accident. With time, they can become a choice.

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7. If the Good Emotions Don’t Come

It’s also okay if you’re not feeling them yet.

This chapter is not a prescription. It’s a permission slip.

Your timeline is your own.

Some people take months. Others take years. Some feel joy right away and feel guilty about it. Others feel nothing for a long time and wonder if they’re broken.

You’re not broken.

You’re mourning.

And the good emotions will come. Not to replace your grief — but to stand beside it, and eventually, to help carry it.

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Conclusion: The Moon Still Rises

That first full moon marked something for me.

It didn’t heal me. But it reminded me that life continues. That the sky still moves. That beauty doesn’t disappear just because someone you love is no longer here.

And that smiling — even through tears — is part of remembering.

The moon still rises.

And in its light, I remember Angé — not only in sorrow, but in joy. In gratitude. In quiet peace. In optimism. In love.

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Reflective Questions

1. When was the last time you felt a good emotion during your grief?

2. How did it make you feel — and did you allow yourself to stay with it?

3. Which of the emotions in this chapter do you recognize in yourself?

4. Which ones do you struggle to access?

5. How might you open a small door to joy, forgiveness, or optimism today?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I still look for the full moon every month.

And when I see it, I don’t cry. I smile.

I smile because I can almost hear her gasp — that sharp, joyful intake of breath she made when the moon rose, like it had surprised her yet again. I can see the way she’d lean forward, as if meeting an old friend, and whisper something only the moon could hear.

Because of her, I notice more. I notice the way moonlight softens the edges of the night. I notice the exact moment it rises over the horizon. I notice how it makes everything — even my grief — a little gentler.

Not because I’ve stopped mourning, but because her joy taught me that beauty is worth stopping for.

Because of Angé, I let good emotions land when they come — even in grief. I let them stay.

And in that moment, under the full moon, I share it with her.

“Grief is a storm of emotions. It doesn’t ask permission to arrive, and it rarely leaves quietly.”

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Opening Reflection — The Rage in the Kitchen

It was three days after Angé died. I was standing in the kitchen, washing a coffee cup she had last used. The mug still smelled faintly of cinnamon. Someone had sent another casserole, and the kitchen was full of neatly labeled tupperware containers filled with love — and yet I wanted to smash them all.

The grief wasn’t soft or poetic in that moment. It was sharp. Loud. Ugly. I wanted to scream. I was furious — at life, at cancer, at time, at God. At her for leaving me. At myself for not saving her. That rage didn’t make sense. But it was real. And it needed to be felt.

Hard grief emotions come uninvited. They don’t ask permission. They sit in the corner of your mind and wait until you’re vulnerable. Then they rise — like a tide — and drown you for a while. This chapter is about those emotions. The ones we don’t want to admit to. The ones that surprise us with their power. The ones that don’t get talked about enough.

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1. Anger: The Uninvited Guest

After Angé died, anger came in sudden bursts. I’d walk past a place we loved and feel my stomach clench. I’d see her handwriting on a sticky note and feel something break. I was angry at the doctors who couldn’t fix her. Angry at the cancer that hollowed her body. Angry at myself for not insisting on different treatments sooner.

I even got angry at her for not fighting harder — which I know is unfair. But grief is rarely calm or logical.

Anger often disguises itself — as frustration, irritability, sarcasm, or withdrawal. It might even show up as physical pain or tension. You snap at someone. You cry in rage. You say things you don’t mean. You feel like you’re exploding inside.

What to Do With It:

• Acknowledge it. Say it aloud: “I’m angry. And that’s okay.”

• Move with it. Go for a walk. Hit a pillow. Write it down. Let it burn through.

• Don’t judge it. Beneath anger is sadness, grief, love. Let it pass, and go gently toward what lies underneath.

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2. Guilt: The Endless “What Ifs”

Guilt was my shadow in those first months. I would replay the final weeks, searching for what I could have done differently. Should I have gotten her to the hospital sooner? Should I have argued harder with the doctor about pain management?

And then there’s the guilt I hate admitting — the small moment of relief that her pain was over. That I no longer had to watch her suffer. That guilt made me feel like a monster.

The truth is, you did what you could with the tools and knowledge you had at the time. You were tired. You were overwhelmed. You were loving the best way you knew how.

What to Do With It:

• Separate real responsibility from false guilt.

• Speak forgiveness to yourself: “I did my best. That is enough.”

• Write a letter to them. Say what you wish you’d said.

Sometimes, guilt is a way of trying to stay connected. There’s a gentler way to do that — through memories, rituals, and kindness — not self-punishment.

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3. Jealousy: The Silent, Shameful Emotion

I never thought I’d feel jealous while grieving Angé, but it hit me in strange moments. I’d see couples holding hands in a supermarket queue. I’d overhear friends planning holidays with their partners. And I’d ache — not because I wanted their life, but because I missed mine.

Once, I saw a woman absentmindedly straighten her partner’s collar while waiting at a café. It was such a small gesture, but it undid me. I thought of the way Angé would fix my shirt collar before we went out, sometimes joking about how I’d “never notice” if I walked out looking like I’d slept in my clothes. That one memory triggered a flood of longing.

Jealousy in grief is rarely about malice. It’s about being confronted — again and again — with what you can no longer have. It’s a reminder of the gap between what was and what is. But because it feels petty or small compared to the enormity of loss, you often keep it to yourself, letting it ferment into shame.

What to Do With It:

• Recognize jealousy as grief in disguise — it’s the voice of longing, not hatred.

• Speak it aloud in a safe space. Sometimes saying “I feel jealous” lifts its hold.

• Limit triggers when you need to — it’s okay to scroll less or avoid certain gatherings for a while.

• Create moments of connection and joy for yourself, no matter how small — a coffee in the sun, a walk in a place you love.

You’re not broken for noticing what you’ve lost. You’re human. And longing is part of love.

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4a. Bitterness: The Slow Poison

Bitterness came to me quietly. It didn’t slam the door — it seeped in like a slow leak. It grew in the quiet moments after the calls stopped, when the world carried on, and my loss was no longer headline news for anyone but me.

Bitterness says, Why me? Why her? Why now? It keeps replaying the unfairness of it all. It points at the happiness of others and whispers, They don’t deserve it as much as we did. It looks back at the past and says, We were robbed.

The danger of bitterness is that it makes a home in you. It hardens the edges of your heart. It turns what was once longing into cynicism, and it slowly starts to color everything in shades of grey.

If left untreated, bitterness doesn’t just sit quietly in the corner of your mind — it seeps into your body. It can keep you awake at night, raise your blood pressure, tighten your chest, drain your energy, and make even simple joys feel like work. Over time, it can rob you of both your mental clarity and your physical well-being.

What to Do With It:

• Name it early. The sooner you spot bitterness, the easier it is to soften.

• Find a place to pour it out — a journal, a trusted friend, therapy.

• Balance it with small acts of gratitude. Not to cancel out the bitterness, but to keep it from consuming you.

Bitterness is a natural reaction to deep injustice. But if you let it take root, it will keep you from stepping toward anything good again. And if you cling to it, it will destroy more than just your happiness — it will slowly destroy you.

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4b. Resentment: The Unpaid Debt

Resentment feels like someone owes you — an apology, a visit, a presence they promised but never gave. For me, it showed up when people who swore they would “always be there” simply vanished. Or when someone made a thoughtless remark that cut deep, and they never noticed.

Resentment thrives in the gap between what you needed and what you got. It builds a ledger in your mind, tallying every hurt, every absence, every broken promise. And in grief, that list gets long fast.

If you hold onto resentment too long, it won’t just live in your thoughts — it will live in your body. It fuels anxiety, triggers headaches, knots your stomach, and drains your immune system. It keeps you in a state of constant tension, always braced for the next disappointment. That stress eats away at your peace, your health, and even your relationships with people who didn’t cause the harm.

What to Do With It:

• Decide if the debt can realistically be repaid. If not, find ways to let go of collecting it.

• Communicate once if you can. Sometimes saying “That hurt me” is enough.

• Focus on relationships that give rather than drain.

Resentment is heavy to carry. And if you carry it too long, it will eventually carry you — into exhaustion, isolation, and even illness. Setting it down isn’t weakness. It’s survival.

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5. Shame and Self-Loathing: When Grief Turns Inward

I felt ashamed that I was still crying months later. Ashamed I couldn’t “function” the way I used to. Ashamed I forgot people’s birthdays, skipped social events, or snapped at friends who didn’t deserve it.

Grief has a cruel way of making you judge yourself for being human. It whispers lies like:

“You should be stronger by now.”

“You’re a burden.”

“You’re too much for people to handle.”

Sometimes, shame turns into self-loathing. You look in the mirror and see someone you don’t like — someone whose patience is thin, whose energy is gone, whose joy has been stripped bare. And because grief makes you more inward-facing, those thoughts loop endlessly.

The danger is that shame can stop you from reaching out for help, even when you need it most. You tell yourself you don’t deserve support. You start hiding the truth from those who care, and the isolation deepens.

What to Do With It:

• Challenge the shame stories: would you speak to a friend the way you speak to yourself?

• Keep a “truth list” — things people you trust have said about your worth, your kindness, your resilience. Read it when shame speaks loud.

• Allow yourself to be cared for without apology. You do not have to “earn” compassion.

• Speak honestly when someone asks how you’re doing — even if the answer is, “I’m not okay.”

You are still worthy. Still loved. Still needed — even in your lowest moments.

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6. Withdrawal: Not Just Numbness, But Self-Protection

After Angé’s death, I became quieter. I stopped going to certain places we’d gone together. I avoided some people because I couldn’t bear their pity or their attempts to cheer me up with empty phrases.

Withdrawal isn’t always about being numb — sometimes it’s the opposite. It’s feeling too much and not having the bandwidth to share it. You’re like a battery running on its last bar — every interaction costs energy, and you’re afraid of running out completely.

It can be protective in the short term. It gives you space to breathe, to rest, to avoid further wounding when you’re already raw. But if it stretches too long, it can start to reinforce loneliness, which in turn deepens sadness.

What to Do With It:

• Honor your need for quiet, but give yourself gentle deadlines to re-engage.

• Keep at least one line open — one friend or family member you reply to, even briefly.

• Reconnect in small doses: five minutes on the phone, a short coffee, a walk with someone who understands silence.

• Remember: it’s possible to protect yourself and still let a few people in.

Withdrawal is like closing the curtains in your home. Sometimes you need to block out the glare for a while — but if you never open them again, you’ll miss the light.

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7. The Physical Impacts of Hard Grief Emotions

Hard grief emotions don’t just live in your head — they take up residence in your body. And if they linger too long, they can become as damaging physically as they are emotionally.

• Anger keeps your body in a state of fight-or-flight. Your heart rate spikes. Your blood pressure rises. Muscles stay tense. Over time, this strain can lead to headaches, heart issues, and chronic tension.

• Guilt can make you clench your stomach or shoulders without realizing it, creating digestive issues, back pain, or jaw tension.

• Jealousy and resentment can keep you in a low-grade stress state, flooding your system with cortisol that wears down your immune system.

• Bitterness can disrupt sleep, making rest shallow or elusive, which impacts concentration and mood.

• Shame and withdrawal can sap your energy, making even small physical tasks — cooking, walking, showering — feel overwhelming.

In prolonged mourning, the physical effects can become serious: high blood pressure, ulcers, weight fluctuations, skin breakouts, inflammation, lowered immunity, and increased risk of illness.

What to Do:

• Notice physical symptoms as early warning signs — your body is speaking the emotions you may be avoiding.

• Pair emotional release with physical release: walk, stretch, garden, swim, or do light exercise.

• Prioritize rest. Sleep is not laziness in grief — it’s repair.

• Get a medical check-up. Tell your doctor you are grieving — it helps them understand your symptoms in context.

• Nourish your body even when appetite is low: small, balanced meals are better than skipping food entirely.

Your body carries grief just as much as your mind does. Treat both with patience and care.

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Conclusion: You Are Not Your Emotions

Hard grief emotions are not failure. They are evidence that you loved deeply. They are part of the landscape. They are visitors — not tenants.

Let them in. Let them teach you. And then, let them go.

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Reflective Prompts and Actions

1. What’s one grief emotion you’ve been afraid to name out loud? Write it down.

2. Write a letter to them telling them your hardest emotions. End with, “I loved you then. I love you still. I forgive us both.”

3. Make an “I Feel… But I Am…” list.

4. Tell one trusted person about one hard emotion you’re carrying.

5. Say aloud: “I allow myself to feel. I allow myself to mourn. I allow myself to live honestly.”

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I know now that grief is not just about sadness — it is an emotional orchestra with wild, unpredictable movements. She would have wanted me to feel it all — the joy, the rage, the longing, the silence — because feeling fully is living fully. So I no longer apologize for the anger or the jealousy or the withdrawal. I let them come and go, knowing that each emotion, no matter how hard, is a thread that still connects me to her.

🌻 Mourning

Mourning is the price we pay for deep love.

It’s raw. It’s honest. And it changes by the hour.

In the early days, mourning is loud and public.

You speak about your loss constantly —

to friends, to strangers, to yourself.

You cry freely. You share photos. You tell stories.

You need others to witness your pain because it feels too big to carry alone.

It feels almost like you’re keeping them alive through words.

If you stop talking about them, maybe the world will forget — and that feels unbearable.

So you talk. You repeat stories. You search for people who knew them just so you can say their name out loud again.

But over time, something shifts.

The grief doesn’t disappear —

but it becomes quieter.

It stops shouting and starts whispering.

It becomes internal.

Where once you’d burst into tears in the middle of a conversation,

now you just pause. Inhale. Swallow hard. And move on.

Where once you needed to speak of them every day,

now you think of them in silence —

in the car,

in the shower,

in that long stretch of the afternoon when the house feels too still.

It’s not that you’ve “accepted” anything —

it’s that your body and mind have learned to carry the weight without dropping it all over the place.

The grief is still there —

but it lives deeper inside you now.

And people start to say,

“It gets better with time.”

What they mean — if they’re being honest —

is that your mourning becomes less visible.

Less obvious.

Less disruptive.

Not because it’s gone —

but because you’ve learned how to carry it without letting it spill into every corner of your day.

You still miss them.

You still ache.

But the grief has been absorbed into your bones.

You stop announcing your sadness to the world.

You learn to acknowledge it privately.

To nod at it.

To give it a moment — but not your whole day.

That is the slow, painful, necessary process of mourning.

You never stop missing.

But you slowly learn how to keep living.

I remember with Angé, the first month after she passed, I couldn’t make it through an hour without saying her name.

Sometimes I said it aloud. Sometimes just in my head.

Her name became my anchor, and my wound, all at once.

I wanted everyone to know she had been here.

I wanted the world to feel her absence as sharply as I did.

But months later, I found I could go a whole day without telling someone about her —

not because I loved her any less,

but because she had become so deeply woven into me that she no longer needed constant explanation.

She was there in my gestures, my choices, my silence.

She didn’t need me to say her name every five minutes.

She had already shaped the man I am.

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🌻 Contentment

Eventually, if you allow the mourning to pass through you —

rather than build a house inside it —

you reach something quieter.

Contentment.

It doesn’t arrive with a banner.

It doesn’t announce itself.

There’s no exact day when you “feel better.”

But slowly, over weeks and months, you realize:

• You’ve stopped crying every day.

• You’ve built small rituals that anchor you — a morning walk, a cup of tea, a journal.

• You’re less reactive. The tears don’t sit just behind your eyes all the time.

• You’ve let some people back in — maybe not deeply, but enough.

• You can have a conversation without bringing their name into it. Not because you’ve forgotten, but because it no longer feels urgent.

And most importantly —

you’ve started to cope.

You’ve created systems.

Built scaffolding.

Put cushions around your day.

You’ve stopped fighting the fact that they are gone —

and started figuring out how to live in their absence.

That’s contentment.

But contentment, though precious, can also be deceptive.

Because it feels so much safer than grief,

we start to treat it like a destination.

We stop pushing.

We stop risking.

We stop reaching for joy — because we’ve finally found stillness.

But stillness is not the same as living.

And that’s where the danger lies.

I remember the first time I felt “okay” after Angé died.

It was a sunny morning. I’d made coffee, sat on the stoep, listened to birdsong, and for half an hour, I didn’t cry.

It felt like a victory — and it was.

But I also felt a strange guilt, as if I were betraying her by enjoying something.

It took me a long time to understand that moments of stillness are not betrayal — but they are also not the final goal.

They are resting places, not endpoints.

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🌻 Contentment Can Be a Trap

Contentment can become your hiding place.

It’s the place where you’ve managed to avoid breakdowns —

so you dare not disturb the peace.

You avoid laughter because it might open up grief again.

You avoid new friendships because you don’t want to explain your story.

You avoid risk because you’re afraid of another loss.

You nod politely to life.

You do the expected things.

You survive.

But you don’t glow.

You don’t giggle.

You don’t gasp at beauty.

You don’t get excited.

And over time, you stop noticing you’re not really living anymore.

That’s the trap of contentment.

It keeps you safe — but it can also keep you small.

It’s not bad. It’s not wrong.

It’s just not enough.

With Angé gone, I could have stayed there forever — just keeping the garden going, meeting friends for coffee, maintaining a life that looked fine on the outside but was hollow on the inside.

I could have built a perfectly “content” life, safe from the risk of further loss.

But she didn’t live her life that way, and I knew she wouldn’t want me to either.

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🌻 Happiness

So I choose something else.

I choose happiness.

Not because I’ve “moved on.”

Not because I’ve forgotten.

Not because the pain is gone.

I choose happiness because I still remember.

Because I still ache.

And because I still believe in beauty — even after death.

Happiness isn’t the reward for surviving grief.

It’s the rebellion against staying in it too long.

It’s the brave, daily decision to live.

To reach.

To dance.

To try.

To fall in love again — with people, with nature, with purpose.

This kind of happiness doesn’t mean you stop mourning.

It just means you stop waiting for mourning to end before you allow yourself to feel joy.

Happiness can exist inside mourning.

It can flicker in moments of contentment.

And the more you pursue it — deliberately, consciously — the more space it begins to take.

One of the most healing (and terrifying) choices I made after losing Angé was to start walking the Camino.

Not to “get over” her.

Not to distract myself.

But to see if joy could live alongside grief in my heart.

And it did.

Some days, it was the smallest thing — a sunflower in a field, a stranger’s kindness — but it was enough to remind me that happiness hadn’t left the earth when she did.

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🌻 The Joy–Happiness Coexistence

There will be days when a wave of mourning knocks you flat.

Let it.

There will be afternoons when contentment feels like all you can manage.

Settle into it.

But in between those moments —

look for the light.

• Go for a walk and smile at the sun.

• Play a song that makes you sing.

• Eat something delicious and don’t rush it.

• Plant something.

• Volunteer.

• Travel.

• Tell a joke. Even a bad one.

• Invite someone new in.

Choose to participate.

Choose to engage.

To create.

To laugh.

To make plans.

To say yes again.

That’s happiness.

Not the absence of grief —

but the presence of life

🌻 Reflective Questions

1. Where are you right now — mourning, contentment, or beginning to pursue happiness?

2. Are you letting contentment become a comfort zone that’s keeping you from joy?

3. What small acts of happiness could you choose today — even within your grief?

4. What routines or rituals have helped you cope — and what new ones could you add to grow?

5. If you were to live “Because of” the person you’ve lost, what choices would you make differently starting today?

Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I know how much love matters.

How much touch matters.

How much living while you’re alive matters.

She never postponed joy.

If there was a walk to take, she took it.

If there was a dance to dance, she danced.

If there was something beautiful to notice, she noticed it — and made sure you saw it too.

So I won’t sit in a shadow version of life.

I will mourn her.

I will find contentment.

But I will also reach for happiness.

Because of Angé, I will:

• Keep walking

• Keep noticing

• Keep planting

• Keep smiling

• Keep creating

• Keep being

I will take risks.

I will laugh loudly.

I will cry openly.

I will let people in.

I will keep loving — even with the risk of loss.

Because that’s how she lived.

And that’s how I want to live too.

“We planted trees, not tears.”

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Opening Reflection: A Different Kind of Goodbye

There was no printed program.

No priest, no organ, no line of chairs facing a podium.

Just a dusty road leading up to the farm at Bokrivier, a field full of stories, and a quiet instruction:

“Please bring a fruit tree.”

That was Angé’s memorial.

It was what she wanted. Not because she ever said the words “please plant trees instead of praying,” but because we knew her. We knew how much she loved earth and roots and hands in soil. We knew she wanted to give life, not be remembered in marble or stone. And we knew that this place — a happy place  — was the right place to begin saying goodbye.

So we invited friends, family, loved ones. And they came.

Carrying guava saplings, lemon trees, plum trees. One person brought a fig tree. Another brought a wild olive. People arrived in pairs or alone, planting with spades and with tears, often in silence, sometimes in laughter.

There was the smell of fresh-turned earth in the air, sharp and damp. Birds called from the fence posts, their songs mingling with the scrape of spades and the low murmur of voices telling stories. The breeze carried both dust and the faint scent of the first blossoms from an old peach tree nearby.

And between it all, I planted my own tree. Just me. Later that evening, I turned over the old vegetable garden and planted sunflower seeds. Not for anyone else. Just for Angé. Just for me.

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1. There’s No One Right Way to Say Goodbye

Let’s begin here: there is no universal “right” way to have a memorial.

Some people need a church — the steadiness of pews, the comfort of liturgy, the power of shared faith.

Some people need hymns and candles and formal readings.

Some people need the structure of a service that follows time-honored rhythms: opening prayer, eulogy, sermon, song, benediction, burial.

And that’s not wrong.

In fact, it’s deeply right if that’s the life the person lived. If they were raised in that tradition. If the people around them find peace in ritual. If the church was their community — their anchor, their rhythm, their place of belonging.

A traditional memorial can be beautiful and profound.

It can offer containment for overwhelming grief.

It can carry the mourners when words fail.

And for many, it provides the cultural and emotional scaffolding needed to begin the journey of mourning.

What matters is not how we do it — but why we do it.

The memorial should reflect the person.

It should reflect their story, their spirit, and their connections — whether that’s through sermons or spades.

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2. Let the Life Guide the Format

Angé’s life didn’t fit in a chapel. Not because she rejected it — she just lived differently.

She was nature, not walls. She was spontaneous, not scheduled. She found her connection to God in flowers, not formal prayers. Her community wasn’t confined to a Sunday — it was lived out in meals, text messages, swims, and sunrises.

So, her memorial needed to reflect that.

We didn’t print orders of service. We handed out seedlings.

We didn’t give a speech. We dug holes in the earth.

People arrived in hiking boots and sandals, some holding children, others holding back tears.

The space filled with laughter, stillness, and shared memories. No microphone was needed. The birds sang more than we did.

And that was exactly how she would have wanted it.

If someone else’s life had included choirs and communion, that would have been right for them.

If someone’s life had included mosque prayer, or a drum circle, or silence in a meditation hall — then that’s what the memorial should reflect.

The way we say goodbye should match the way they lived.

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3. The Communal Memorial: Letting Others Say Goodbye Too

When someone you love dies, it’s natural to feel possessive.

They were mine, you think. Our relationship was special.

And it was.

But others hold their own stories, too. Their own Angé. Their own heartbreak.

And the memorial is the one time where all of those stories are invited into the same space.

At the Bokrivier memorial, it was incredible to see how many versions of Angé arrived.

People talked about her horse riding — her confidence, her gentleness, the way she spoke to the animals like old friends. Others told stories of firefighting — the intensity, the commitment, the strength it took to show up again and again for others, even when the flames were close and the terrain was rough.

Someone mentioned her endless energy for helping a neighbour — showing up with bread and coffee when their power went out. Another recalled the way she would laugh, head back, eyes closed, at some silly joke only she found funny or the way she tilted her head when she  was making a point.

Everyone had a version of her. And that day gave them space to hold that version up to the light, to grieve, to smile, to say goodbye.

We sometimes forget that a memorial isn’t just for the immediate family.

It’s also for those whose grief may not be loud — but it is real.

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4. The Private Goodbye: The One That Belongs Only to You

But amid the crowd, you also need something else:

A goodbye that’s just for you.

After the fruit trees were planted, and people had gone home, I stayed behind.

The sun was setting, and I walked alone across the garden.

I turned over the earth with my own hands, pulling out weeds, smoothing the soil.

And then I planted sunflower seeds — one by one — into the ground Angé loved.

There was no one watching. No one speaking. Just me, my breath, the wind, and her memory.

That was my real memorial. My private ritual.

It was quiet, raw, sacred.

Private goodbyes matter because they are where you can be unguarded. No hosting, no managing, no explaining your tears or your silence. It is where grief is allowed to stretch its legs without fear of judgment. Some people find this moment in a place — a favourite bench, a mountain view, a garden bed. Others find it in a ritual — lighting a candle, writing a letter, reading a shared book.

Everyone needs this. Whether you create a ceremony with two or three close friends, or simply sit alone with a photo, a candle, or a memory — you need a space that isn’t shared.

That quiet goodbye doesn’t need a date or invitation. It just needs truth. And time.

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5. Who You Invite — And Who You Don’t Have To

Here’s something people don’t say enough:

You don’t have to invite everyone to the memorial.

It’s okay to have boundaries.

It’s okay to say, “No, this space is not for them.”

There may be people who want to be there out of curiosity. Out of obligation. Even out of ego.

And if their presence will disturb the peace, distract from the moment, or bring stress — then you are fully within your rights to say no.

Not everyone who wants to mourn deserves a seat in the front row.

A memorial should be a safe space. A sacred space.

It’s not a social event. It’s not a performance.

It’s a goodbye.

And if that goodbye would be hurt by certain people, then don’t feel guilty about drawing a line.

You’re allowed to protect your grief.

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6. Memorials That Grow On

The most beautiful part of Angé’s memorial is that it didn’t end.

It continues.

Every time I walk through that patch of land, I see fruit trees growing stronger.

I see the fig tree sprouting new leaves. The guava bearing tiny fruit.

I see sunflowers turning their faces to the sky.

This is not a frozen moment in time. It’s a living memory.

Something that changes with the seasons, that invites return, that offers shade, food, color.

And that’s the quiet magic of a living memorial — it calls you back, again and again. Birthdays, anniversaries, or simply on days when the missing is too heavy. It gives you a place to talk to them. To stand still. To remember.

We don’t often think of memorials as something that evolve. But they can.

You can return to them. Add to them. Let them grow.

Because grief doesn’t end with a service. And neither should remembrance.

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7. Planning a Memorial? Ask the Right Questions

If you’re facing the hard task of planning a memorial — here are the questions that matter:

• What reflects their spirit?

• What reflects your relationship with them?

• What do you need in order to begin your own goodbye?

• What do others in their life need?

• Are there traditions, rituals, or settings that bring comfort?

• Are there expectations you need to release?

• How might this memorial live on in the years to come?

And perhaps the most important one:

What would they have wanted — and what do you want to carry forward from that day?

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Conclusion: The Goodbye That Roots You

A memorial isn’t a performance.

It’s a turning point.

A space to begin the work of carrying someone inside you — differently, now.

Angé’s memorial wasn’t a goodbye carved in stone. It was roots in soil. It was fruit trees swaying gently in the wind. It was a forest being born — one that will feed others for years to come.

It gave others space to remember.

And it gave me the sacred silence to say: Goodbye, my love.

Whatever memorial you choose — traditional, informal, or somewhere in between — let it be honest. Let it reflect the person. Let it begin your next step.

And don’t forget to make room — just for you.

You deserve that moment too.

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Reflective Prompts

1. If you could design a memorial that reflected your loved one’s spirit — what would it look like?

2. How do you feel about including or excluding certain people from the memorial? What boundaries do you need?

3. Have you made time for a personal goodbye, separate from the formal one? If not, what would that look like for you?

4. Is there a way for the memorial to live on — a ritual, garden, gathering, or tradition you can return to over time?

5. If you could add to that memorial over the next five years, what would you add — and why?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I know that a memorial can be alive. Not a static plaque, not a cold headstone, but something that grows — something that changes with the seasons, just as grief changes with time. She taught me that remembrance can be both tender and practical, that love can be planted in soil as much as it can be spoken in words.

Because of Angé, I know the value of inviting people into a shared goodbye — not because it is easy, but because it allows every person to carry a piece of her forward in their own way.

And because of Angé, I know that my own goodbye doesn’t have to be public, loud, or perfectly scripted. It can be quiet, private, and held only in my heart. The sunflower seeds I planted in our old garden will grow for her, but also for me — a promise that love, like roots, doesn’t end where the ground begins