Posts in category: Book of Mourning

Because of Angé: The Candlelight on the Stoep

One night, maybe six weeks after Angé died, I came home later than usual. The world was unnervingly still. The air had that thick, weighted quiet that usually comes before a storm. I pulled into the driveway and looked up at the house — our house. It was completely dark. No stoep light left on for me. No soft glow from the kitchen window. No smell of food drifting out into the evening air. No gentle sound of her voice calling out, “You’re home!”

And suddenly, I froze.

That stoep had been our place. It was more than bricks and tiles — it was a piece of our story. We sipped wine there under thick blankets in the middle of winter, watching the mist roll in over the trees. In summer, we sat after long walks, her legs draped over mine, the dogs curled up at our feet. She would light candles in mismatched jars and talk about ideas, dreams, memories. Sometimes, we didn’t talk at all — we just existed together in the glow.

That night, I walked up and sat on her side of the stoep. It was cold. The space felt stripped of warmth. I didn’t cry. I didn’t talk. I didn’t pray. I just sat in the dark — no candle, no wine, no her. Just me and the unbearable weight of her absence.

And then my phone buzzed.

It was a message from someone I hadn’t heard from in weeks. Just eight words:

“I lit a candle for Angé tonight. Thinking of you.”

That message didn’t bring her back. It didn’t fix anything. But in that moment, it felt like someone had stepped onto the stoep with me. Not with advice. Not with noise. Just presence. Just memory. Just love.

That’s what this chapter is about — how to step onto the stoep with someone who is mourning. How to be with them without needing to change their grief.

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1. Show Up, Don’t Disappear

Grief has a way of emptying the room.

In the days before and after the funeral, the space is full. People arrive with flowers and food. They speak gently. They cry. There’s an unspoken sense of duty to “be there.” But slowly, quietly, people begin to fade away. Life pulls them back into their own routines. The mourner is left alone — with paperwork, with silence, with echoes.

If you want to support someone in mourning, resist the urge to vanish after those first few weeks.

Even if you don’t know what to say.

Even if you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Even if you feel uncomfortable.

Show up anyway.

And when you show up, remember: your role is not to fix anything.

There’s a story I’ve always loved — from Winnie-the-Pooh.

Eeyore was sad. Deeply, profoundly sad. He was sitting alone, tail dragging in the mud. Pooh Bear saw him. And instead of giving advice or jokes or clever solutions, Pooh just sat down beside him. Quietly. Calmly. Lovingly. No speeches. No attempts to cheer him up. Just presence.

That’s the whole story. And it’s everything.

The truth is, mourners rarely remember exactly what you said. But they will always remember that you came — and that you stayed.

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2. Say Less, Be More

One of the easiest ways to lose connection with someone who is grieving is to speak too much.

Grief doesn’t want neat explanations. It doesn’t want spiritual slogans or Instagram-worthy encouragements. It doesn’t need you to explain why things happen, or to assure them that “time heals all wounds.”

It just wants company.

We often stumble into unhelpful territory when we’re uncomfortable with silence. We fill the air with well-meant but clumsy phrases:

• “At least they’re not suffering anymore.”

• “You were lucky to have them.”

• “Everything happens for a reason.”

The problem? Those words sound like instructions to feel better. They imply that there’s a “right” way to grieve, and that you’ve decided it’s time.

Instead, try these:

• “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here.”

• “I miss them too.”

• “Would it be okay if I just sat with you?”

These words carry no agenda. They allow grief to breathe without being pushed toward a timeline.

And sometimes, skip the words entirely. A hand on the shoulder, a shared cup of tea, or simply being in the same room without demanding conversation can mean more than any speech.

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3. Do Something Practical

When you are deep in mourning, even the simplest tasks can feel like climbing a mountain.

After Angé passed, I couldn’t decide what to cook — or even whether I wanted to eat. Bills piled up unopened. I’d find myself standing in the kitchen staring at a cupboard for ten minutes, unable to remember what I’d gone in for.

The people who helped most didn’t wait for me to tell them what I needed. They didn’t say, “Let me know if you need anything” — because in grief, decision-making is almost impossible.

Instead, they just did things:

• A friend dropped off meals in small containers I could heat up.

• Someone quietly came in and washed the dishes without asking.

• Another person handled communication with family I didn’t have the energy to face.

If you want to help, don’t make the mourner plan your help. Decide on something small and doable, and follow through:

• “I’ll drop off dinner tomorrow night.”

• “I’m going to the shop — text me what you need.”

• “Can I fetch the kids on Friday so you can rest?”

Practical kindness creates breathing space in a life that has been shattered.

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4. Walk With Them, Not Ahead of Them

Grief is not a race. There is no finish line. There is no medal for “getting over it.”

And yet, well-meaning people sometimes try to pull the mourner forward:

• “It’s time to move on.”

• “You have to be strong now.”

• “They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Often, what they’re really saying is, “I’m uncomfortable with your sadness. I want you to go back to who you were so I can relax.”

But the mourner isn’t who they were. And they won’t be again. They are learning to walk again — often with a limp that never goes away.

Your role is not to drag them toward a version of themselves they can’t return to.

Your role is to walk beside them.

At their pace.

In their time.

Even if that pace feels painfully slow.

The gift is in your willingness to stay — not to rush them through their pain.

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5. Remember the Dates, Tell the Stories

One of the deepest fears of the bereaved is that their person will be forgotten.

The photos may still be on the fridge. The toothbrush may still be in the bathroom. The perfume may still linger in the cupboard. But in the outside world, their name is spoken less and less.

One of the most powerful ways you can support someone is to say the name.

Share the memory.

Mark the birthday.

Acknowledge the anniversary.

A friend once messaged me on Angé’s birthday:

“Today I’m remembering the smile she gave me when we all went to her house to celebrate her birthday – all day . I can see it so clearly in my mind.”

That took her four seconds to send. I’ve read it twenty times. It told me three things:

1. She remembered.

2. Angé mattered to her too.

3. I wasn’t the only one who still missed her.

Every time you tell a story about their person, you aren’t “reopening wounds.” You are affirming that their life mattered — and still matters.

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6. Know That Support Looks Different for Everyone

What comforted you in your own grief may not work for someone else.

Some people want visitors. Others want space.

Some need to talk endlessly. Others need silence.

Some throw themselves into projects. Others can’t get out of bed.

The only way to know is to ask — gently:

“What helps right now — talking, silence, coffee, a walk?”

And then, adapt.

If they lash out, don’t take it personally. If they withdraw, don’t assume they don’t want you around. You are standing near a raw nerve — expect tenderness, confusion, and inconsistency.

The most valuable thing you bring is your willingness to be present without needing to be perfect.

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7. Stay at the Table — Long After the World Moves On

Grief does not run on a schedule.

The hardest days may not be the first Christmas or the first anniversary. They might be eight months later, on a random Tuesday, when the house feels unbearably empty.

That’s why long-term support matters.

Mark your calendar: three months, six months, one year after the death. Send a message. Make a call. Drop by.

Let them know that while the world may have moved on, you still remember.

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What Not to Do: Don’t Pretend Nothing’s Wrong

One of the most painful things you can do to someone who is mourning is to step into their world and act as if nothing has happened.

It might feel like you’re bringing “positivity” or “light” into the room, but to the mourner, it feels like erasure. You’re not lifting their mood — you’re denying their reality.

I’ve had people come into my space after Angé died and carry on as though everything was perfectly fine. No mention of her. No question about how I was coping. No willingness to even sit quietly if I wanted to speak about her. Instead, they laughed too loudly, changed the subject if her name came up, and steered the conversation toward safe, cheerful topics.

It’s as if they believed that if we all behaved happily enough, the grief would simply vanish. But grief doesn’t vanish when you ignore it — it grows heavier.

If you really want to support someone, don’t pretend. Acknowledge the loss. Say their person’s name. If you’re not sure what to say, admit it: “I don’t know the right words, but I’m here.” You don’t have to make it better — you just have to make it real.

The biggest kindness you can offer is to face the grief with them, instead of pretending it isn’t there.

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Because of Angé — The Chair Beside Me

There’s a wooden chair on the stoep that no one sits in anymore.

It’s nothing special — just a slightly faded chair with a faint coffee stain on the armrest and a small nick in the back leg from when one of the dogs knocked it over. But it was hers.

In the weeks after she died, I couldn’t bring myself to move it. I didn’t put anything on it. I didn’t let anyone else sit there. It stayed exactly where it had been the last time she used it, angled slightly toward me, as if she were still there, listening, smiling, sometimes interrupting with a thought that made me laugh while tilting her head in that way only Ange could do

One evening, a friend came over. She didn’t ask if she could sit there — she just noticed the empty chair, took another one instead, and placed her cup of tea on the stoep between us.

She didn’t say a word about the chair, but she saw it.

And in seeing it, she saw me. She saw what mattered.

That’s what good support looks like — noticing without announcing, honouring without taking over, making space without making a speech.

Now, whenever I think about how to support someone in mourning, I think of that chair.

Because of Angé, I know that sometimes the best thing you can do is simply leave the space where their person once was — not to avoid the absence, but to acknowledge it. Not to fill it, but to let it remain theirs.

Introduction: Forget the Rules

There are no six steps to mourning.

No neat pathway to “new behaviours.”

No twelve-step guide to emotional recovery.

Mourning is not a self-help program. It’s not a course you graduate from. It’s not a checklist where you tick off “denial” and “acceptance” and then move on with your life.

It’s messier than that.

It’s more unpredictable than that.

And — most importantly — it’s yours.

The world will try to hand you a framework: This is how people grieve. This is what you should do. This is how long it should last.

But those frameworks aren’t written for you. They’re written to make other people feel more comfortable around your pain.

There is no timetable, no moral scorecard, and no single “correct” set of behaviours. Your mourning will not look like mine. Mine will not look like yours. And both will be valid.

This chapter is not about teaching you a process.

It’s about giving you permission — permission to mourn in a way that makes sense to you, even if no one else understands it.

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Mourning as a State of Being

Mourning is not a mood. It’s not a specific feeling.

It’s a state of being — a condition you carry, like a quiet undercurrent in your life.

Some days, that undercurrent shows itself clearly.

You might feel sadness and call it grief.

You might feel frustration and call it mourning anger.

You might withdraw from company because you can’t bear the noise of the world.

You might tell someone, “Today is a hard day,” and let them see that your loss is close to the surface.

And other days, it’s the opposite.

You might laugh freely.

You might work all day without a single thought of the person you lost.

You might sit in good company and realise — genuinely — that this is a good day.

There are also days that shift halfway through.

You could start the morning light and easy, only for a scent, a song, or an unexpected question to pull you under in seconds.

You could wake heavy, certain you’ll need to avoid people — only to find yourself later sitting in the sun, talking and laughing with someone you trust.

That doesn’t mean you’ve stopped mourning.

It means the behaviour of mourning, the visible expressions of it, are simply at bay. The current is still there, running quietly beneath everything you do.

This is why mourning is not an easily identifiable state of being. It can’t be spotted on sight. It’s not an identifiable set of feelings, either — because feelings change. They are different for everyone, and they are different for you from one day to the next.

Mourning is the backdrop to all these emotions, not the emotion itself. It’s the frame in which your daily experiences are painted. Some days the frame is invisible. Some days it’s the first thing you see.

There Is No Universal Mourning Behaviour

Let’s be very clear: there is no single behaviour that defines mourning.

You can’t say someone is mourning just because they’re crying. They might be sad about something else.

You can’t say someone is mourning just because they’re angry. That could be about something entirely different.

And you definitely can’t say someone is not mourning just because they seem okay.

Mourning is invisible unless we’re told it’s there.

There are no badges.

There are no clues.

There is no way to look at someone and know, “they are mourning” — unless they choose to show you.

So what is mourning behaviour?

It’s the behaviour that you choose in response to loss.

And it will not look the same for you as it does for anyone else.

If you passed me on the street, you wouldn’t know I was mourning.

I don’t wear black.

I don’t cry in public.

And yet — I am mourning, every day.

That’s the strange thing about mourning. It doesn’t have a uniform. There’s no handshake, no look in the eye, no phrase you can say or hear that proves: “Ah yes, they are in mourning.”

Mourning is not visible. But it’s real.

It’s private. But sometimes public.

It’s in everything. And yet, sometimes, it looks like nothing at all.

You Set the Tone for Your Mourning

Some people walk.

Some people cry.

Some people throw themselves into work.

Some people stay in bed for days.

Some people write.

Some people shout.

Some people do nothing.

Each one of those is mourning. And none of them are wrong.

Your mourning behaviour is not what your family expects.

It’s not what your religion prescribes.

It’s not what your friends suggest.

It’s what you do with the pain you’re carrying.

Your mourning behaviour is yours to create — and it will evolve.

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Private vs Public Mourning: You Choose Both

There’s mourning behaviour that is private — those quiet, unseen rituals:

• You make coffee and pour two mugs even though only one will be drunk.

• You sleep on one side of the bed.

• You keep their toothbrush.

• You wear their watch on days when you need strength.

• You read their favourite book again, underlining the passages they loved.

And then there’s public mourning behaviour — the choices you make around others:

• You might cry during a meeting.

• You might laugh too loudly at a story because you want to feel something again.

• You might wear their scarf to a dinner.

• You might speak their name when everyone else avoids it.

• You might post a photograph online with no caption, trusting those who know will understand.

The point is this:

You choose how to behave — both alone and in company.

You choose how much to reveal.

You choose how much space to take up.

You choose whether to say, “I am grieving,” or whether to keep it sacred and silent.

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You Are Allowed to Mourn Your Way

Grief does not come with rules. So don’t let others hand you a script.

If your mourning looks like planting sunflowers across a continent — let it.

If it looks like silence and staying home — honour that.

If it looks like dancing, or weeping, or baking, or hiking, or writing, or sitting — it’s still mourning.

There is no committee deciding whether you’re doing it right.

Mourning is not a test. It is an experience.

You do not owe anyone an explanation.

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You Set the Boundaries — And They’re Flexible

One of the most important parts of mourning is deciding where your boundaries are — and remembering that those boundaries are allowed to shift.

You might be open to talking about your loss one day, and completely closed off the next.

You might want visitors this week and crave solitude the following week.

You might be comfortable with someone mentioning the name of the person you’ve lost today, but tomorrow, even hearing that name might feel like a punch in the chest.

That is normal.

Sometimes your boundaries will surprise even you. You might set out to go to a social gathering, determined to stay, but find yourself stepping outside halfway through, standing in the quiet just to catch your breath. You might answer the phone thinking you’re ready for a conversation — and then realise within seconds that you can’t do it right now.

Mourning is a state of being, but it’s not a fixed state. The boundaries you set are there to protect you in this moment — not to lock you into a permanent position.

You’re allowed to say, “Not today,” without explaining why.

You’re allowed to say, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready,” and never follow up if you don’t get there.

You’re allowed to tell people what you need in the simplest, clearest way — without cushioning your words to make them feel more comfortable.

Boundaries are not rude.

Boundaries are not selfish.

Boundaries are survival.

And the beauty of them is that they can move as you move. They are yours to shift, adjust, or remove entirely — based on where you are in your day, your week, or your year.

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When People Overstep Your Boundaries

Some people will respect your boundaries.

Some people won’t.

Sometimes, it’s because they genuinely care and don’t realise they’re overstepping.

Sometimes, it’s because your way of mourning makes them uncomfortable, and they want to fix you.

And sometimes — harsh truth — it’s because they think they know better than you about how you should grieve.

When that happens, you are entitled to be firm.

You are entitled to say:

• “Please stop asking me to come out. I’ve already said no.”

• “I don’t want to talk about this today.”

• “Stop making me feel bad about feeling bad.”

• “Stop making me feel bad about not wanting to be around people.”

• “Stop telling me how to mourn — I will mourn my way.”

But strength doesn’t have to mean burning bridges.

You don’t have to alienate someone to protect yourself.

You can hold your position without turning it into a fight.

The key is to be clear and respectful, even when you are being direct. You’re not out to punish the person — you’re out to protect yourself. That means using words that draw a firm line, but not words that deliberately wound.

If they are genuinely trying to support you, this clarity will help them understand where they fit into your life right now. If they are simply being intrusive or unkind, it will make your limits known without leaving scorched earth behind you.

Your aim is not to drive people away, but to ensure they meet you where you are — not where they think you should be.

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Conclusion: You Set the Pace

Your mourning behaviour sets the tone for your new behaviour patterns. It tells the world, “This is how I will carry this loss. This is how I will honour it.”

It is not performative.

It is not perfect.

It is not consistent.

It is yours.

You may not get to choose the loss — but you do get to choose how you live with it.

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I’ve learned that mourning isn’t always still and silent.

When she died, I didn’t sit in the corner of a quiet room and cry for days — though I thought I might. Instead, I walked. I wrote. I spoke. I planted. I reached out.

And for a while, I questioned myself: Was I mourning the right way?

But then I remembered how Angé lived. She was never one for long silences or private suffering. She mourned people by cooking meals for their families, by lighting candles, by cleaning beaches, by laughing at memories and helping others through theirs.

So I chose to mourn like her — not by collapsing, but by creating. Not by hiding, but by walking straight into the pain with movement and purpose.

Because of Angé, I gave myself permission to mourn in the way that made sense to me.

And I’ve realised — that is the only way mourning ever works.

Opening Reflection

The evenings are the hardest. I used to look back from the path — after one of our long twilight walks — and see the beach house glowing softly in the dusk. Warm light spilling through the windows, the smell of dinner curling out of the chimney, and the comforting knowledge that inside, there was love. There was us. I would smile then, knowing we’d soon sit down together, share a meal, plan the next adventure, or just be in one another’s presence.

Now I still take that path sometimes. I look back, but the light feels different. The house is quiet. Still. And even though the walls are the same, it no longer feels like home. It’s just where I sleep.

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1. Small Things Build a Life

We often imagine that love is written in big gestures. The surprise holidays. The anniversary dinners. The expensive gifts. But the truth — the truth that mourning exposes — is that real love, lasting love, is built in the minutiae: the shoulder squeeze, the shared cup of morning coffee, the unspoken language of looks across a room, the holding hands when we fell asleep.

It’s the sound of her brushing her teeth while I made toast. The way she tucked a blanket around me without asking. The soft “mm” sound she made when she took the first sip of tea. The quiet joy of cooking together in familiar silence, the occasional clink of cutlery or pan lid marking the rhythm of our shared space.

These aren’t grand events. But they are the foundation.

And when those foundations are ripped away, it feels as though nothing stands.

Grief shows up in the empty seat across the table. In the untouched toothbrush. In the coffee cup you still set out by habit, even though you know it won’t be used. You start to realize that the architecture of a shared life isn’t in the big pillars — it’s in the tiny bricks you placed together every day. And now, those bricks are scattered, leaving you trying to balance on ground that no longer feels steady.

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2. The Ache of Ritual Lost

There was a time when the full moon meant adventure. We’d get on our bikes — no matter the hour — and ride on the beach under silver light, laughing into the night. Sometimes we’d walk instead, side by side, talking about nothing and everything. No destination. Just the joy of movement and moonlight and being together.

We also swam. In cold rivers and mountain pools. Sometimes just floating silently. Sometimes splashing like children. We had a habit of making tea afterward, still damp and wrapped in towels, and sitting close without speaking — because the quiet said everything.

These were not tourist moments. They were not Instagram-worthy, curated events. They were habits of happiness.

And in mourning, the pain isn’t only that she’s gone — it’s that those moments have no one left to hold them. I could ride my bike under the full moon alone. I could swim. Technically. But the magic died with the we.

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3. Loneliness in the Familiar

There’s a particular cruelty in how familiar places can turn on you. The very things that once made you feel safe become reminders of absence.

I used to look back at the beach house with such satisfaction — knowing there’d be warmth, chatter, food, and connection inside. Now I still look back. But it’s a different view. I see the same light, but I know the table only has one plate. I know no one’s waiting.

Loneliness isn’t always about being alone. It’s about no longer sharing meaning. You walk into a room that once held laughter and now holds silence. You pour two cups and pause. You make the bed and realize you’ve only slept on one side for weeks. Even objects — the book she left open on the shelf, the scarf still on the hook — seem to look at you differently, as though they too know what’s missing. The invites from friends and family that now say Ian you are invited, no longer Ian and Ange.

Grief lives in those tiny gestures that used to belong to two people and now sit awkwardly with one.

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4. The Intimacy of Planning a Life

We loved to plan. Future trips, weekend hikes, garden projects, winter dinners with friends. Planning wasn’t just logistics — it was an act of faith. A way of saying: We’re still going somewhere together.

There was joy in the anticipation. The maps on the table. The silly arguments about which road trip snacks were essential. The satisfaction of a new idea scribbled in a notebook. Every plan had her signature on it. Even the impractical ones. Especially the impractical ones.

Now, the future looks like a blank calendar. I can plan. I can book. I can move. But the color is gone. Planning alone feels hollow. It’s not the lack of company that aches — it’s the lack of shared vision. The absence of that quick grin when I said something outrageous. The absence of her saying, “Let’s do it!” or “That’s mad — I love it.”

It turns out, dreams feel smaller when you can’t hand them to someone and watch their eyes light up.

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4a. The Stillness That Used to Be Shared

There are times now when I simply sit. Not because I’m tired. Not because there’s something to watch or something to do. I just sit — in the quiet of the late afternoon, or the hush of evening, or that vague space between lunch and nothing.

These were the times we’d talk. Or read. Or sit together and let silence fill the space in that beautiful way only two people in love can do.

Now, the silence echoes.

Now, it hurts.

Every time I drove to town we would chat. Ange doing Ange things at home, me driving. Just chatting being together. Now there is  no conversation. No shared book. No look at this moment. Just me. And a kind of emptiness that feels heavier than any noise. That time, which once felt restful, now feels raw. It’s not dramatic or loud. But it gnaws at the soul.

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5. Relearning the Body’s Memory

Touch. Oh, how I miss touch. Her hand in mine. The brush of arms as we walked. That gentle squeeze on my shoulders when I sat at the computer.

It was such a small gesture — but it grounded me. Reminded me I wasn’t alone. That I was seen. Loved.

Grief steals that comfort. It leaves the body yearning. Not just emotionally, but physically. My skin still waits for her hand. My muscles still tense in preparation for her hug. Even months later, I find myself turning, expecting the familiar warmth of her beside me, the early morning hug to start the day.

You don’t just mourn a person. You mourn the way your body knew theirs. The muscle memory. The weight of them leaning on you. The rhythm of two heartbeats settling into one another during sleep.

There’s no quick fix for that. It’s an ache that settles into your bones.

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6. Keeping the Spirit of the Rituals Alive

So what do you do? When the full moon comes, and there’s no one to ride with? When the walk is just you and the echo of steps that used to match yours?

You keep going. Slowly. Gently. Sometimes you walk anyway — not because it feels good, but because it matters. Sometimes you swim, and you cry afterward. Sometimes you light a candle at dinner, and you say, This is for us.

You don’t recreate the moment. You acknowledge it. You carry it forward in new ways. These aren’t acts of forgetting. They’re rituals of remembrance. They say: This mattered. This still matters.

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7. The Danger of Dismissing “Small” Pain

People will tell you to focus on the good memories. And that’s fine. But don’t let them dismiss the pain of the small things.

The pain is real. It’s deep. And it deserves space.

Grieving the cup of coffee is not silly. Grieving the evening walk is not sentimental. These were the threads that held your life together. When they snap, it hurts.

Let yourself feel it. Let the loneliness have its name. Say it out loud. The absence of a hand to hold is a real loss. The absence of laughter over scrambled eggs is a real wound.

Grief lives in the fine print. Don’t ignore it.

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8. A Lonely Cottage, and a Choice

I still walk at dusk. I still look back at the beach house. Some nights I see only the loneliness — the light with no laughter, the bed with one pillow used. But some nights, I close my eyes and I remember.

I remember her smile in the doorway. I remember drying off after a swim, making hot tea, and sitting close. I remember the candlelit dinners after full moon walks, the music, the closeness, the soft way she’d reach for my hand without looking.

And sometimes, in that memory, I feel just a sliver of warmth. Not enough to chase away the pain. But enough to know she was real. We were real. And that’s worth remembering and honouring .

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Conclusion: Grieving the Daily Sacred

We tend to mark lives by the big events — the anniversaries, the milestones. But loss teaches us that it’s the small things that shape us. The sacred daily. The touch, the routine, the tiny joy.

These things mattered. They still do. And though the ache of their absence may never vanish, they are proof of a love that lived honestly and well.

Don’t be ashamed of mourning a mug, or a walk, or a plan. These are the heartbeats of a shared life.

And when you feel ready — not today, maybe not this year — you will make new rituals. New walks. New plans. Not to replace the old, but to honor them.

Because love leaves fingerprints in the smallest places. And those are the ones we hold the longest.

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Because of Angé — The Moonlight Ride

One night, long before either of us knew how short our time would be, the full moon rose brighter than I’d ever seen. We had no plan. No reason to be out. But Angé looked at me, smiled that mischievous smile of hers, and said, “Let’s ride.”

We grabbed our bikes — no jackets, no lights — and cycled out onto the beach. The air was cool, the sand silver, and the only sound was the hum of our tyres on the beach. At one point, she stopped, tilted her head back, and just stared at the moon. I stood next to her, watching her more than the sky, thinking, This is it. This is what life is for.

That ride wasn’t about exercise or scenery. It was about being alive together in that exact, unrepeatable moment.

Now, every time I see a full moon, I feel both the ache and the gift of that memory. I don’t ride anymore on those nights. But I do stop. I look up. And I think of her — the girl who could turn an ordinary night into a forever memory.

“Forgiveness is what frees the hands. Happiness is what we build with them.”

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Opening Reflection: Forgiveness Walks, Happiness Builds

Sometimes forgiveness begins with a whisper:

I forgive you for leaving.

I forgive you for not staying.

I forgive you because I must… if I am ever to breathe freely again.

And happiness? It doesn’t arrive by magic. It’s chosen. Created. Built from the ground up. A walk. A jump. A gesture.

On a quiet afternoon, I whispered forgiveness to the sky… and then I moved — across a field, up a hill, and down a mountain trail. Not away from grief, but into life again.

Both forgiveness and happiness ask for movement. They are not static. They are verbs. You step into them. You do them. And often, you must do them again, and again, and again.

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1. Forgiveness Is a Verb — A Doing Word

We often think forgiveness is something that “happens” to us — like a soft wave of peace washing over. But that’s the fairy tale version.

Forgiveness is a verb.

It’s a conscious act.

It’s the hand that lets go, the breath that releases, the step that says:

I will not stay here forever.

Forgiveness is doing differently:

• Choosing not to replay the betrayal in your mind every night.

• Speaking a name without bitterness or rage.

• Writing a letter you never send, just to empty the words from your chest.

• Lighting a candle, not out of spite, but in memory.

And here’s the part people forget — forgiveness is rarely “once and done.” Sometimes you forgive… and two weeks later, the same wave of anger or sadness crashes into you. That doesn’t mean you failed. It means forgiveness needs another round.

Think of forgiveness like untangling a ball of wool that the cats have played with.. You loosen one part, but the tangle is still there. You work at it again. And again. And again. Each attempt makes it looser, lighter, more manageable — until one day, without quite realizing it, you find the tangle gone.

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2. Forgiving the One Who Died

Grief twists time. Sometimes you feel abandoned — even when you know they didn’t choose to leave. And yet, part of living fully again requires this brave act:

I forgive you for dying.

I forgive you for not recovering.

I forgive you for leaving me in this mess of love and sadness.

This isn’t cruelty. It’s honesty. It’s giving yourself permission to stop holding the impossible expectation that they could have done more.

It’s saying:

I know you were in pain. I miss you. But I won’t let your death be the end of my living.

This might look like:

• Walking a trail in their memory.

• Planting a tree.

• Shouting into the wind, then breathing deeply and continuing to walk.

And if you do these things and still feel the ache as raw as before? Forgive again.

If the next day you still feel the heat of resentment? Forgive again.

If a year later you find yourself angry when you hear their favourite song? Forgive again.

Forgiveness is not a door you close; it’s a path you walk.

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3. Happiness Is Not Found — It’s Done

Like forgiveness, happiness isn’t a “state” you stumble upon. It’s a practice — often a small one.

Happiness is:

• Making yourself a good cup of coffee, and drinking it slowly.

• Dancing badly to a favourite song while cooking.

• Climbing rocks at the beach just because you can.

• Riding your bike fast enough to make your eyes water.

• Letting your hands get dirty in a garden.

• Laughing at something ridiculous, even in the middle of grief.

And here’s the important truth: Happiness will feel wrong at first. Mourning whispers that happiness is betrayal. That laughter is disloyal. But happiness isn’t the opposite of grief — it’s the proof you are still alive.

You don’t wait for happiness. You build it, brick by brick, action by action.

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4. Forgiveness Creates the Space — Happiness Fills It

Here’s how they work together:

Forgiveness clears the rubble.

Happiness builds the shelter.

If your heart is crowded with blame, guilt, or resentment, there’s no room for joy to land. But once you start letting go — even a little — space opens.

The process might look like this:

• Forgive.

• Then walk the trail.

• Forgive.

• Then bake the cake.

• Forgive.

• Then laugh at the memory without choking on it.

Forgiveness allows breath.

Happiness uses that breath to sing.

And if after forgiving, the space still feels heavy? Forgive again. Each time you forgive, you clear a little more rubble.

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5. The “Forgive Again” Rule

If you’ve forgiven and it hasn’t changed your behaviour or emotions — forgive again.

If you forgive again and it still hasn’t changed your emotions or behaviour — forgive again.

If you forgive for the third time and still feel unchanged — forgive again.

Because forgiveness is like exercise. You don’t get fit after one walk. You go back. You repeat. You keep showing up. The strength builds over time.

You may forgive the same person for the same thing fifty times before it stops controlling your emotions. That’s not weakness — that’s perseverance.

Sometimes this means forgiving before bed so you can sleep. Sometimes it means forgiving in the morning so you can get out the door. And sometimes it means forgiving in the middle of the day, because the anger has come back, uninvited and loud.

Forgiveness is not the same as approval. It doesn’t erase the fact that something happened — it simply stops that thing from owning you.

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6. Forgiveness Sometimes Means Exclusion

Forgiveness doesn’t always mean continued closeness.

There may be situations where the person who is deserving of forgiveness behaves in such a way that true forgiveness — and your own emotional well-being — requires distance.

Sometimes that distance is temporary, a pause to allow wounds to close and your own heart to steady. Other times, the distance may be permanent, because their words, actions, or neglect have made it unsafe or unhealthy for them to remain in your life.

It is entirely possible — and sometimes necessary — to say:

I forgive you… and I am stepping away.

This is not punishment. It is boundary-setting. You forgive to free yourself from the weight of resentment, but the way the relationship is positioned in the future is not dictated by that forgiveness.

Forgiveness is your work — the clearing of your own inner space. How (or if) they fit into your future is a separate decision, made with wisdom, care, and self-respect.

Think of it this way: forgiveness is the release; boundaries and freedom from guilt  are the foundations you build afterward. You can release the bitterness and decide not to invite them back into the home of your heart — only do so when the time feels right.

And in mourning, this distinction becomes vital. Because your ultimate goal is to live in a way that honours the person who has died — and sometimes, that means protecting your space, even from people you’ve forgiven.

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7. The Forgiveness Cycle

Forgiveness in mourning isn’t a straight line — it’s a cycle.

It can look like this:

1. Trigger – Something stirs up the hurt. A comment, a memory, a photograph, or even a silence.

2. Reaction – Emotion rises: anger, sadness, bitterness, resentment.

3. Decision – You acknowledge the feeling and decide not to let it own you.

4. Action – You actively forgive: speaking it out loud, writing it down, praying it, or simply breathing it out.

5. Release – The emotional pressure eases, sometimes only a little.

6. Rebuilding – You use that freed-up energy to do something that brings life: a walk, a conversation, a moment of laughter.

7. Return – A new trigger will come. And you begin again.

This cycle is normal. In mourning, you may go through it dozens of times a day. Over time, the spikes of reaction soften, the returns are less frequent, and the space between steps grows longer.

The goal is not to “finish” forgiveness — it’s to live in it.

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8. Living the Verbs: What It Looks Like

Forgiveness looks like:

• Whispering “I miss you” without bitterness.

• Burning a journal page filled with pain, then watching the smoke drift away.

• Choosing not to keep score when someone fails you again.

• Saying “yes” to today, even while carrying yesterday.

Happiness looks like:

• Taking a slow walk at sunrise with no destination.

• Building something with your hands — a meal, a chair, a garden bed.

• Listening — really listening — to a bird, a guitar, or a river.

• Riding. Planting. Smiling. Dancing. Living.

Neither is passive. You do them. You decide. And you keep deciding.

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9. Forgiveness and Happiness Feed Each Other

The more you forgive, the more room you have for happiness. The more you choose happiness, the more strength you have to forgive.

One without the other is like breathing in without breathing out — eventually you’ll choke.

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10. Common Mistakes in Forgiveness

One of the most painful lessons in forgiveness is realizing this: forgiving someone does not guarantee they will change.

We often forgive with a silent hope attached — that our act of grace will awaken their conscience, mend the relationship, or inspire them to behave differently. But sometimes, they don’t. Sometimes, they repeat the same words or actions that hurt you. Sometimes, they don’t even acknowledge your forgiveness.

This is where many people feel disillusioned: “I forgave them, and they still did it again.”

It’s important to remember that forgiveness is not a form of control. It is not a bargaining chip you trade for better behaviour. Forgiveness is your work. Their behaviour is theirs to own.

In mourning, this truth becomes sharper. You may forgive someone for not showing up when you needed them most, only to have them disappear again. You may forgive someone for saying something careless about the person you’ve lost, only to hear a similar comment later.

When that happens, you might be tempted to take forgiveness back — to harden your heart again. But the act of forgiving was never wasted. It was still the right thing for you, because it freed you from carrying that heavy anger.

This is why boundaries matter. If the person keeps behaving in harmful ways, you may need to adjust your relationship, not your forgiveness. You can forgive them for who they are and still limit how close you allow them to be.

Think of it this way: forgiveness cleans the inside of your house; boundaries decide who gets to come inside.

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Conclusion: Choosing Both, Again and Again

Forgiveness isn’t a moment. It’s a muscle you use daily. Happiness isn’t a miracle. It’s a craft you practice, stitch by stitch, step by step.

Forgiveness says: I release you.

Happiness says: And now, I begin again.

Both are actions. Both are verbs. Both are yours to choose — again, and again, and again.

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Reflective Prompts:

1. What is one act of forgiveness I can physically do today?

2. Who — or what — still holds a corner of my anger, and what can I release?

3. What’s a small, active thing I can do for happiness this week — even for five minutes?

4. How can I live both forgiveness and happiness as verbs, not just ideas?

5. What situation or person might require my forgiveness again today?

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Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I know forgiveness is not weakness — it’s the quiet courage that lets you live without carrying a stone in your chest. She taught me that happiness is not found in grand escapes but in the everyday acts of building a life worth waking up to. When I forgive, I make space. When I choose happiness, I fill it. And in both, I keep her alive in the way I move through this world.

Opening Reflection

When someone you love dies, you don’t just lose them — you inherit the weight of what you didn’t say, didn’t do, or didn’t understand in time. Guilt doesn’t always arrive with evidence. It doesn’t care about facts. It shows up anyway — loud, insistent, and tangled in love.

I’ve asked myself over and over again: Did I do enough? Did I love her enough? Did I make her happy? Did I say something stupid that I’ll never get to take back? This is the guilt that comes not because of wrongdoing, but because of love that can no longer be given.

And if we let it, guilt will keep us stuck — stuck in the moment of loss, stuck in the questions, stuck in the rewriting of a past we can’t change.

Introduction: Guilt Comes with the Territory of Love

There’s a strange and cruel irony in grief: the deeper you loved, the more guilt seems to arrive when the person dies. Guilt isn’t just for the things you did wrong. It comes from love itself. It comes from being the one left behind, the one who has to live with the outcome.

We often think guilt is reserved for regretful actions — a sharp word, a forgotten moment, a failed promise. But in mourning, guilt is broader. It shows up even when we’ve done our best.

This chapter explores guilt as a natural — yet painful — part of grief. It also offers a way through: not by denying guilt, but by facing it, separating it from responsibility, and learning to live with it in a way that leads to peace, not self-destruction.

1. Guilt as the First Companion of Death

Guilt doesn’t need a reason. It just arrives.

Sometimes it’s clear:

I forgot her birthday that year.

I wasn’t holding his hand when he died.

Other times, it’s vague and unrelenting:

Did I love her enough?

Did she know?

Could I have changed the outcome?

Guilt shows up in the stillness — when the adrenaline has worn off, when the meals have stopped coming, when the funeral is over and everyone else moves on. That’s when the mind goes digging through memory like a forensic detective, looking for what went wrong.

And the problem is: it always finds something.

The truth is, no matter how present, how devoted, how loving you were — guilt arrives because you cared. The very act of loving someone deeply means that when they’re gone, you second-guess everything. It’s not failure. It’s not weakness. It’s love, trying to make sense of what can’t be undone.

2. The Link Between Regret and Guilt

Regret is often the door that guilt walks through.

You regret not saying something when you had the chance.

You regret snapping at them on a tired day.

You regret not visiting that one last time.

You regret believing there would be more time.

And in that moment of regret — that painful, wishful longing for a different past — guilt arrives. Not always because you did something wrong, but because you wish you could have done more, or better, or sooner.

Regret is about missed chances. Guilt turns those missed chances into moral failings. It says: You should have known. You should have done better. You should have seen it coming.

But regret is human. It reflects your longing. It shows that you cared deeply.

Guilt, however, distorts that regret into blame — and most often, self-blame.

In mourning, we need to learn to name the difference:

• Regret says, “I wish I had.”

• Guilt says, “I failed because I didn’t.”

When you don’t acknowledge regret early, it curdles into guilt. And that guilt, left unchallenged, can become shame — a silent, corrosive voice that keeps you trapped.

So meet your regret early. Name it. Grieve what couldn’t be changed. And then gently remind yourself:

Wishing doesn’t make you guilty. It makes you human.

3. How Guilt Blocks Mourning

Mourning is the process of accepting the loss, rebuilding your life, and honouring the one who is gone.

But guilt makes that nearly impossible.

Guilt keeps you rooted in the past. You can’t rebuild a life when you’re still living in a courtroom in your head, cross-examining your actions with Should I have? What if I had? Why didn’t I?

It becomes a loop:

1. You feel sad.

2. The sadness triggers guilt.

3. The guilt blocks your ability to move.

4. The stuckness intensifies the sadness.

And so it continues.

For mourning to do what it needs to do — to carry you through the valley of loss toward something new — you have to loosen guilt’s grip. Not by denying it, but by meeting it face-to-face.

Because guilt, when unspoken, becomes shame.

And shame doesn’t heal. It isolates.

One of the most powerful shifts in grief is this: learning to separate guilt from responsibility.

You can be responsible and still feel guilty — but they are not the same.

• Guilt says, “I failed.”

• Responsibility says, “I carried a heavy role with love and care.”

When Angé was in her final months, I made decisions I never wanted to make. There were moments when we had to choose between another treatment that might give her days but steal her comfort, or stopping treatment altogether to focus on peace. I said “no” to some interventions — not because I didn’t love her, but because I did.

At the time, it felt like betrayal. The “what ifs” were relentless. What if I’d said yes? What if that extra week could have meant another memory, another laugh? But responsibility is rarely about guaranteeing outcomes — it’s about acting in the best way you can with the information you have.

Think of responsibility as a role you step into with both feet. It’s heavy, sometimes unbearably so. But guilt sneaks in and tells you that if you can’t carry it perfectly, you’ve failed. That’s not true. You can be imperfect and still be faithful to your role. You can doubt and still act with love.

When you reframe responsibility this way, you stop holding yourself to an impossible standard. You stop punishing yourself for not having the powers of hindsight. And most importantly, you start giving yourself credit for the times you showed up — which, if you’re honest, were far more often than you think.

5. Creating a Process to Release Guilt

You can’t just “let go” of guilt with a snap of the fingers. You must create a process to walk through it.

Here’s one way to begin:

1. List what you feel guilty about. Be specific. Write it down.

2. Speak it out loud — to yourself, to someone you trust, or to a therapist.

3. Ask yourself honestly: “Was I truly at fault, or am I feeling this way because I cared?”

4. Forgive yourself — intentionally and aloud. Say:

“I did my best. I forgive myself for what I didn’t know, or couldn’t do.”

Sometimes, the list will be long. And sometimes, even after the process, the guilt lingers. That’s okay. You’re not erasing the guilt — you’re learning to live beside it without letting it lead.

You might also consider a ritual:

• Write a letter to your loved one and burn it.

• Throw a stone into a river for every guilt you name.

• Plant something in the ground as a sign of new life.

Ritual gives shape to pain. It makes the intangible — visible.

6. Living With Guilt in a Way That Heals (Not Hurts)

You may never be rid of guilt completely. But you can learn to walk with it — like a limp that reminds you of a wound, but doesn’t stop you from climbing the mountain.

One way to make peace with guilt is to give it a job. Instead of letting it be a critic, let it be a guide. Ask yourself:

• “What is this guilt teaching me about what mattered most to me?”

• “How can I honour that value now, in my present life?”

If you feel guilty for not spending enough time with your loved one, use that as a reminder to be fully present with those who are still here. If you feel guilty for words left unsaid, let that guide you to speak openly now — even when it’s uncomfortable.

Living with guilt in a healthy way means letting it sharpen your compassion, not your self-punishment. It means saying, “This hurts because I loved. And that love can still flow — into my choices, my relationships, my daily life.”

Some people find it helpful to create a symbolic way of “carrying” their guilt without being crushed by it. One mourner I spoke to keeps a small, smooth stone in their pocket — a reminder of both the weight and the permanence of love. When the stone feels too heavy, they place it somewhere safe and walk without it for a while. That, too, is a choice we can make with our guilt.

Handling Guilt Triggers in Daily Life

Even when you’ve worked through guilt in a healthy way, it can resurface unexpectedly — often in the form of triggers. A smell, a song, a place, or even a random comment can pull you straight back into a moment you wish you could change.

Triggers can feel like ambushes, but they don’t have to derail you. Here are some ways to handle them:

• Pause and Acknowledge It — Instead of pushing the feeling away, name it: “I’m feeling guilty because this song reminds me of the night I didn’t call back.” Naming it gives it shape and takes away some of its power.

• Anchor Yourself in the Present — Use grounding techniques like touching something solid, focusing on your breath, or looking around and naming five things you see. This keeps you from getting lost in the spiral of “what ifs.”

• Reframe the Trigger — Ask: “If they were here now, how would they want me to feel in this moment?” Often, the answer is kinder than your instinct.

• Choose a Ritual Response — Maybe you touch a necklace they gave you, whisper a private thank-you, or take a deep breath and smile at the memory instead of drowning in it.

Over time, these small, deliberate responses can turn triggers from emotional ambushes into quiet reminders of love — moments that connect you to your person without pulling you under.

Conclusion: Guilt Is a Part of Love’s Echo

In the end, guilt is just another echo of love.

It tells us we cared. That we showed up. That we wanted to do more.

But guilt, left unchecked, will block mourning, stall growth, and bury you in “what ifs.”

So face it. Name it. Forgive yourself.

And then take a deep breath — and take one step forward.

Let that be enough for today.

Reflection & Action Prompts

1. Name one thing you feel guilty about. Write it down in a letter to your loved one. Then write their imagined reply.

2. List five things you did right during their final weeks. Say each one aloud. Let them settle into your heart.

3. Where is guilt keeping you stuck? Describe what it’s preventing you from doing — then ask, “What would they want for me?”

4. Create a small ritual of release — burn the guilt list, bury it, speak it to the wind, or carry a stone until you’re ready to let it go.

5. Reflect on one regret. Name the moment. Then ask: Was it regret… or did I turn it into guilt? Write both versions.

Because of Angé

Because of Angé, I have learned that guilt can be a mirror that reflects love, not just mistakes. She taught me that the measure of a life isn’t in the moments you got it perfectly right, but in the countless times you simply showed up. Even in the decisions I still question, there was love at the centre. And that is enough.

Personal Story — The Fruit Aisle

A few days after Angé died, I went to the grocery store. I saw someone laughing loudly in the fruit aisle, completely absorbed in their day. I stood there, frozen by a single, simple thought: How can life just go on?

The world had collapsed — at least mine had — and yet traffic moved, bread still baked, and people still laughed. I felt anger rise in me, not at them personally, but at the contrast. It was like I was standing in a silent movie while the rest of the world was playing at full volume.

That moment marked the beginning of my journey toward understanding what forgiveness means during mourning. Not just forgiving the person who left. But forgiving the living — for moving on, for not understanding, and for not being shattered like I was.

Introduction

Forgiveness and grief walk closely together, though most people don’t realise it. In everyday life, we think of forgiveness as something we give to others when they’ve wronged us. But in mourning, forgiveness becomes internal, intimate, and tangled.

You might have to forgive the person who died — for leaving you, for suffering, for not saying everything you needed to hear. You might need to forgive yourself — for the words you said or didn’t say, for the things you did or didn’t do, for simply surviving when they did not.

But perhaps the most surprising part of mourning is learning to forgive the world around you — for not stopping, for not noticing, for carrying on as if nothing happened while your life feels like rubble.

You may have to forgive friends for carrying on with their lives, with just the occasional “how are doing”.

Forgiveness in mourning isn’t about excusing pain or pretending it’s fine. It’s about releasing the hold that anger and resentment have over you, so your grief can breathe.

Forgiving the One Who Died

Death often feels unfair, even when it comes after a long illness. When it’s sudden, it can feel downright cruel. You may find yourself angry with the person you lost — angry that they didn’t fight harder, angry that they didn’t say goodbye properly, angry that they left you to navigate life alone.

This kind of anger can feel like betrayal. But it’s part of the human experience of loss. You loved them deeply, so you grieve deeply. And that grief doesn’t always arrive as tears. Sometimes it comes as heat, frustration, or a tightness in the chest.

Forgiveness here doesn’t mean pretending you aren’t hurt or deciding their death was “okay.” It means acknowledging the pain and slowly releasing the resentment so you’re not bound to it. You don’t need to justify their leaving. You just need to make peace with their absence enough that their memory isn’t always framed in anger.

One way to approach this is to imagine the roles reversed. If you had been the one to go first, would you want them to carry anger at you? Or would you want them to keep your memory alive in warmth? That perspective shift can be the first gentle step toward forgiveness.

Forgiving Yourself

Mourning brings with it a ruthless internal critic. You replay your choices. You examine your words. You re-run conversations, often inventing better ones in your head. You wish you’d been stronger, braver, more present.

This self-blame can be relentless. But the truth is, you did what you could with the knowledge, capacity, and emotional energy you had at the time. Self-forgiveness doesn’t mean you stop caring. It means you acknowledge your humanness. It means you treat the version of you who lived through those days with compassion instead of condemnation.

One practical way to do this is to speak to yourself as you would a hurting friend. If someone you loved came to you in the same pain, would you list all their failings? Or would you say, “You did your best. You loved them. That’s enough”?

Forgiving Others for Moving On

One of the hardest realisations in grief is that life goes on for everyone else. Friends return to work. Families pick up school routines. Social media fills with holiday photos, dinner parties, and anniversaries.

Meanwhile, you might still be sitting in the quiet, trying to remember the sound of their voice. That gap between your reality and everyone else’s can feel like a wound.

It’s easy to interpret this as abandonment or a sign that they didn’t care. But often, it’s a sign that they can’t live inside your pain with you — and truthfully, you wouldn’t want them to. Everyone’s survival depends on the ability to keep moving forward.

Forgiveness here is radical. It’s about letting go of the expectation that others will grieve the way you do. It’s about accepting that their return to normal isn’t betrayal — it’s just life continuing, as it always has and always will.

This doesn’t mean you can’t feel left behind. It just means you decide not to let that feeling harden into bitterness.

Forgiving the World for Not Pausing

There’s something deeply disorienting about the world continuing as if nothing happened. The buses still run. Children still laugh in playgrounds. The sun rises, the moon sets, and the seasons change.

And yet, you’re trying to decide why you should get out of bed, which shirt to wear and what to eat. Why is that so hard for the rest of the world to understand how difficult that is

You want the world to stop, even just for a moment, and acknowledge that something sacred is gone. But it doesn’t. The world turns without ceremony.

Forgiving the world means not expecting it to validate your grief. It means you learn to create sacred pauses for yourself — lighting a candle, writing in a journal, sitting quietly, or visiting a place that holds memories. These moments aren’t for the world. They’re for you.

Why Forgiveness Frees the Grieving

Forgiveness doesn’t “fix” grief. It doesn’t shorten the timeline or erase the pain. But it does make grief more liveable.

When you let go of anger — at them, at yourself, at others, at the world — you make space for new emotions to visit. Not necessarily better emotions, just different ones: compassion, reflection, nostalgia without bitterness.

Forgiveness makes the grief breathable. And with breath comes life. Life that still includes your loved one, not just as a loss, but as a legacy.

Conclusion

In mourning, forgiveness is not a single act. It’s a discipline. You may find yourself forgiving the same person a hundred times over. You may need to forgive yourself every morning. You may need to forgive the world every time you see a couple holding hands or hear a song they loved.

That’s okay. Mourning is messy. Forgiveness will not erase grief — but it will make carrying it a little less heavy.

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Reflection Questions and Action Steps

1. Who or what are you struggling to forgive in your mourning?

2. What would forgiving them — or yourself — actually change?

3. How do you react when others move on from your grief?

4. What’s one act of forgiveness you could practice this week?

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Because of Angé — The Quiet Garden Bench

Not long after Angé died, I found myself at a small botanical garden we had once visited together. There was a wooden bench under a jacaranda tree, the kind she loved because of the purple carpet it dropped in spring. I sat down, expecting to feel comfort in the memory. Instead, I felt a rush of anger. She should have been there with me, laughing about how the blossoms stuck to our shoes. She should have been leaning into me, telling me which plant to photograph next.

That afternoon, I realised I had a choice. I could let that anger build a wall between me and her memory — or I could forgive her for not being there, forgive myself for wishing too hard, and forgive the world for continuing to turn without her. So I sat longer. I listened to the leaves rustle. I let the bench become a place of peace rather than pain.

Now, whenever I pass a bench under a flowering tree, I remember that moment. I remember that forgiveness in mourning isn’t about erasing the hurt. It’s about making space for love to keep breathing, even in the places where loss feels loudest.

The Memory and the Motion

It was raining the first time I truly understood the difference between joy and happiness. I stood outside with an ice cream cone, soaked to the bone, laughing without knowing why. In that moment, I wasn’t trying to be happy — I just was. That day stayed with me. It taught me that happiness isn’t always a feeling that arrives uninvited. Sometimes, it’s something you go after. And sometimes, joy just finds you without explanation.

Life is full of those deliberate  moments — but only if we’re plan to notice them. All we need to do is look. All we need to be is open-minded. All we need to do is stay open to the little acts of happiness and the little sparks of joy.

Mourning, however, can close us off. It makes us look inwards — and if we do that for too long, that’s the wrong place to be. We should be looking outside of ourselves for joy and happiness. Joy for the memories, yes, which often live inside us — but also for the small things outside that can trigger joy. And just as importantly, we should be looking outward for acts of happiness, following our hearts when we see them.

This chapter explores the strange companionship of joy and happiness in mourning — two different lights that help us find our way in the dark.

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Introduction

After loss, the world looks different. Food tastes strange. Music is either unbearable or beautiful. Emotions arrive in waves. You’re told to find happiness again, as if it’s a destination. But happiness, I’ve come to believe, is not a place you reach. It’s a practice. A choice. A verb.

Joy and happiness are not interchangeable — they are different visitors in the grieving heart. Joy is sudden. Happiness is deliberate.

Joy may catch you by surprise in a memory. Happiness might be found when you make the effort to take a walk, call a friend, or cook a meal. One comes to you; the other you pursue.

In mourning, both are necessary. Both help you discover new ways of living.

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Defining Joy

Joy is not something you earn or work for. It arrives uninvited — a flash of something good in the middle of the pain. It’s the smile when you hear your loved one’s name unexpectedly. It’s the warmth that rises when a stranger shows you kindness.

Joy is quiet. It’s small. And it often lives in the ordinary.

For mourners, joy is a reminder that you are still alive. That your soul still has moments where it sings. You don’t plan for joy. It just arrives.

Sometimes it’s in a sunflower blooming where it wasn’t planted.

Sometimes it’s in a laugh you didn’t expect.

Sometimes it’s in a sunset that feels like a message.

Sometimes it is a new taste (coffee chocolate cheese or a good meal)

Joy doesn’t cancel grief — it sits beside it, holding your hand without asking for anything in return. It says, “You’re still here. You can still feel.” And that, in itself, is a form of grace.

Joy can feel fragile in mourning. The instinct is to swat it away, to think, If I enjoy this moment, I’m forgetting them. But joy doesn’t mean forgetting. It means remembering differently — remembering with warmth instead of only with pain.

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Defining Happiness as a Verb

Happiness is different. It requires something from you. It is a verb — something you do.

Walking the Camino taught me this. You don’t wait for happiness. You walk toward it. You build it with your choices: deciding to make breakfast, to clean the kitchen, to take a train to somewhere you’ve never been.

Happiness is built in action. It’s not always accompanied by a smile — sometimes it’s just a calm moment or a feeling of completion. But it’s made, not gifted.

Happiness in mourning is not about forgetting the person you lost. It’s about choosing life, even while missing them.

It’s the moment you say yes to a walk with friends.

It’s planting a sunflower.

It’s choosing to show up when all you want to do is stay under the duvet .

It’s intentional. And the more you practice it, the more space you give yourself to grow something new.

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When Joy Appears in Mourning

Grief can dull everything — food, colour, touch. But even in the dullest seasons, joy can show up.

In mourning, joy doesn’t feel loud. It often feels like a whisper — soft and gentle.

It’s the random song that plays and makes you remember dancing in the kitchen.

It’s the dog that runs to greet you when you feel most invisible.

It’s the familiar smell of something baking that makes you pause and smile.

Sometimes joy in mourning shows up in unusual ways — the smell of their perfume in a crowded shop, a cloud formation that feels like a sign, a memory that surfaces without warning and makes you laugh out loud when you thought you’d forgotten how.

You might even find joy in moments that surprise you with their timing — such as in the middle of a funeral, when a shared story triggers unexpected laughter. That laughter can be healing in ways words can’t explain.

When joy comes, let it stay. Let it grow a little. Let it be okay to feel something good, even when you feel like you shouldn’t.

You’re not betraying your grief. You’re allowing room for your full humanity.

Joy will never erase grief, but it can remind you that the part of you capable of love is still alive — and still worth feeding.

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Choosing Happiness Through Action

You may not feel happy. But you can act in ways that open the door to happiness. This is not about pretending or being false.

It’s about remembering that your body and spirit respond to what you do.

When you cook your favourite meal, hike up a hill, dance to your favourite song — something shifts.

Choosing action — even when you don’t feel like it — is a powerful way to re-engage with life. I have found happiness on days when I expected nothing. Because I chose to do. To leave the house. To talk to someone new. To walk the trail even when I was tired.

In grief, doing is not avoidance. It’s survival.

It’s not about distraction. It’s about creation.

You are building the new life that coexists with your loss.

The first steps will often feel empty. You may question why you’re even trying. But momentum matters. The more you choose to act, the more the weight shifts, sometimes almost imperceptibly, toward something lighter.

Your actions can also inspire others. Happiness, when practiced, has a ripple effect. By saying yes to life, you might open the door for someone else in grief to do the same.

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Holding Both: Why You Need Joy and Happiness

Joy and happiness serve different purposes.

One is a visitor.

The other, a companion you must invite again and again.

Joy reminds you that not all is lost.

Happiness helps you build something from what remains.

Mourning is not about returning to who you were. It’s about becoming who you now are — shaped by love, by loss, by memory.

You don’t have to choose one. Let them both walk with you. Joy may find you in silence. Happiness may find you in action.

Together, they help you keep moving, breathing, hoping.

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The Memory and the Motion

I was walking on the Camino, in memory of Angé, when I came across a swing.

A simple wooden swing, hanging on ropes, tucked under a tree beside the path. No one around. Just the silence of the trail.

I climbed on and let go.

Feet in the air. Wind in my face. A childlike whoop escaped from somewhere deep inside me. I laughed — loudly, freely, without thinking. And in that moment, I felt something shift.

I could see Angé.

Not physically, of course. But I could feel her presence — the kind of moment she would’ve loved. I could hear her laugh, that joyful, musical laugh that lit up her whole face. I could hear her saying, “Yes! Go again!”

That swing — that tiny moment — was joy and happiness colliding.

Joy, because it reminded me of Angé. Of all the moments we shared.

Happiness, because I chose to swing. I chose to move. I chose to smile, to laugh, to live, even if just for a second.

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Conclusion

The journey of grief is not without light. It’s just that the light comes differently now.

It comes in flickers of joy and steps of happiness.

Joy will show up in unexpected places.

Happiness will require your effort.

But both will help you live again.

They do not mean you’ve stopped mourning.

They mean you’ve started integrating.

You’ve started choosing.

You’ve started believing that love leaves echoes — and one of those echoes is your choice to live, to try, to do.

So go for the walk.

Make the dinner.

Laugh with the stranger.

You’re not escaping grief.

You’re making room beside it for something beautiful.

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Because of Angé: The Treasure Hunt

Finding happiness is a treasure hunt.

Angé taught me that you don’t always find it where you expect. She had a way of following her heart — not in a careless, impulsive way, but in a way that paid attention to the small signals life offered. She noticed the open café down a side street, the unexpected conversation with a stranger, the detour that led to a better view.

She believed happiness wasn’t about luck; it was about noticing the clues. Some days, those clues were obvious — a planned picnic, a movie night, planting sunflowers. Other days, they were subtle — the warm patch of sun on the couch, the smell of freshly baked bread, the way the light caught the petals of a single wildflower by the roadside.

She followed those signs. And in doing so, she discovered that happiness often came dressed in ordinary clothes.

When I think about finding happiness now, I remember her approach:

Follow your heart and the signals life gives you, and you will know what activities bring you happiness. Sometimes you won’t see the full map, but the treasure is always somewhere close — if you keep moving, keep looking, and keep choosing.

Why I’m walking. Why I’m writing. Why this book matters.

I thought I knew what the Camino would be for. A pilgrimage to grieve, to honour Angé, to mark the loss of the most beautiful presence in my life. I imagined the walking would give me space to process, to reflect, to remember her — and that by the end, I might feel “healed” or, at the very least, a little more whole. But the Camino had other plans. And now, so do I.

Somewhere between the long roads, cracked feet, strange bunk beds, morning coffees, and the quiet companionship of fellow pilgrims, I realised this wasn’t just about Angé. It was about mourning itself. Not just my mourning — but the way we all mourn. And how little space we give it. How little language. How few tools. How few places to say: “This is what it’s like to live after the person I loved most in the world has died.”

That’s why this book exists. It’s not a manual. It’s not a 10-step guide to moving on. It’s not a psychology textbook. It’s my truth — and maybe yours too. It’s a way to say out loud what grief actually looks like on a Wednesday morning when the kettle’s boiling and no one is there to say “good morning.” It’s about those moments you want to scream because someone said, “You’re so strong.” It’s about watching the moon rise and remembering that they used to love it, and crying for no reason. It’s about remodeling your life — not because you want to — but because you have no choice.

And it all started because I couldn’t keep it in anymore. The feelings, the memories, the anger, the gratitude, the laughter, the shame of laughing, the fear that I’ll forget, and the guilt that I still remember everything so vividly. I needed to walk. I needed to write. I needed to mourn.

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The Camino wasn’t what I expected

When I first began walking, I thought the journey would be a sacred space — a quiet, mystical space filled with signs, symbols, and solitude. I imagined I’d be walking mostly alone, talking to Angé in my head, laying sunflowers down at the base of trees or by flowing rivers, and letting the tears come gently.

Some of that happened. But the Camino surprised me. It was louder, more social, more human than I’d imagined. I met people who were also grieving, people escaping jobs, people retiring, people lost in their own ways. And I realised that mourning isn’t only about death — it’s about all the things we lose. Relationships. Health. Time. Dreams.

The Camino cracked me open. It made me admit that I was mourning more than just Angé. I was mourning my former life. My shared plans. My assumed future. My rhythm. My purpose. I was mourning the version of myself that existed when she was alive. That’s when I realised — this is what people don’t talk about. That mourning is messy. That mourning is layered. That it doesn’t end after the funeral. That it changes shape, it changes you — and unless you let it change you, it will crush you.

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Laughter, shame, and guilt

One night I laughed too hard. Someone made a joke at the auberge, and I laughed so hard I cried. But then I felt sick. Sick that I could laugh when she was gone. Sick that I could feel any joy. That’s when I realised: we don’t talk enough about how confusing mourning is. It’s not a line from pain to peace. It’s a wild storm — laughter, tears, stillness, rage, silence, chaos — all in one hour sometimes.

Writing this book, I made a decision: I will not edit out the contradictions. I will not remove the anger. I will not pretend that forgiveness is easy, or that love is enough to carry you through. I will also not hide the good. The hope. The ridiculous moments. The absurd beauty of walking through sunflower fields in the rain and thinking, “She would’ve loved this.”

Because mourning is all of it. And the more I walk, the more I see how little we allow ourselves to hold both things at once — joy and pain, love and absence, peace and restlessness.

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The hole that never leaves

There’s one lesson I learned on the Camino that I never saw coming — and it’s the most important one: I will always be in mourning.

Always.

Mourning will never, ever, ever leave me. Not next year. Not in a decade. Not even if I find happiness again. It’s not a phase. It’s not a period. It’s a state. A condition of the soul. And anyone who has lost someone they loved deeply — a partner, a child, a parent, a sibling, a lifelong friend — will understand what I mean.

Once you enter mourning, you never fully leave it. You just start to live with it. It becomes part of you — like a shadow that stretches and shrinks depending on the day, the light, and the company you keep. But it never disappears.

And so I began to notice something else: the Camino wasn’t just filled with grief-stricken pilgrims like me. It was filled with people quietly carrying that hole inside them — the hole left behind by someone they loved. The world, I realised, is full of mourners. Maybe even everyone is mourning something or someone. Everyone is living with a version of that hollow space — a silence where there used to be laughter, a longing where there used to be presence.

Some people try to fill the hole with work or distraction. Some scratch at it every day until it defines who they are. Some deny it exists at all. And others — and I think this is the wisest way — let the hole find its place. Not a space of absence, but a space of meaning. They remodel their lives around it. They let it exist without letting it control them. That’s what I’m learning to do.

Because Angé is gone, and the hole she left behind is real. But I can choose what I build around it. I can let it remind me to love more, to listen better, to walk slower, to speak softer. That’s the lesson the Camino gave me, over and over again, with every footstep and every sunrise: Mourning isn’t something you recover from. It’s something you live with — and if you let it, something that can reshape you in profound, beautiful, and sometimes painful ways.

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Why I’m writing this book

I’m writing this because someone needs to tell the truth. And if you’ve picked this up — maybe that someone needs to hear some new thoughts is you

You might be here because you’ve lost someone. You might be here because you’re scared of losing someone. Or maybe you’re here because someone you love is grieving and you don’t know how to help. This book won’t fix that. But it might give you language for it.

• It might give you the courage to say, “No, I’m not okay.”

• It might give you permission to say, “I laughed today and I felt guilty.”

• It might give you space to say, “I want to live again, but I don’t know how.”

You’ll find stories here. Not polished ones. Raw ones. You’ll find lists, suggestions, questions, half-truths, whole feelings, and scattered pieces that I hope will make sense in your own heart.

You’ll also find Angé. She’s in every chapter. In every sentence. In every walk. Not as a ghost or an angel, but as the voice in the back of my mind reminding me to be kind, to keep going, and to sit still sometimes and watch the moon. You may find something of you loved one here to, to remember and cherish.

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Camino changed my mind

I thought I would walk away from this journey “healed.”

But instead, I’m learning to live with the wound.

I thought I would write a tribute.

But instead, I’m writing a challenge — to every mourner who’s ever been told to move on.

I thought I would be alone.

But instead, I found a trail of people just like me, putting one foot in front of the other.

I thought mourning was a chapter of my life

But it’s a thread that runs through every chapter of your future life .

And I now know: this isn’t a goodbye.

This is a beginning.

So here’s the book.

Here’s the walk.

Here’s the mourning.

And here’s a new kind of hope — not the kind that fixes everything, but the kind that lets you live while everything is still unreal.

Prologue: Mourning is the Price of Love

Grief is never generic.

We don’t mourn in some universal pattern, measured by how many days we wear black or how many tears we shed. We mourn according to the shape of the hole left behind — and that shape depends entirely on who we have lost. Losing a parent in their 80s is not the same as losing a child at five and is not the same as loosing your partner. Every loss alters the rhythm of your entire life.

It changes how you wake up, how you fall asleep, how you cook, how you plan, and how you speak. It even changes how you introduce yourself to strangers.

People often ask, “How long will this take?” The correct answer is forever. Grief doesn’t follow a clock or a calendar. Mourning is a messy, non-linear, deeply personal journey. Sometimes it feels like drowning. Other times it’s numbness. Then guilt. Then laughter. Then silence. Then back to the beginning. Mourning is not a staircase — it’s a labyrinth.

This book is not a list of steps to recovery. It’s not a neat set of answers. It’s a conversation — a witness — a hand held out to say, you are not alone. Whether you’ve lost a spouse, a sibling, a friend, a child, or a parent… whether your grief is fresh or decades old… whether you are walking, crawling, raging, numbing, or pausing to breathe… this book is for you.

It offers reflections, stories, practices, and reminders. Some pages will bring comfort. Some will challenge you. Some may make you cry. Others may help you laugh again — without guilt. But every chapter has one purpose: to honour your grief, and to honour the one you’ve lost, by helping you carry their memory forward into your life that still has meaning.

Because there is life after death for you.

A Pact Not to Let Grief Destroy Us

Angé once said to me — and she lived this to the end — “Never burn a bridge if you can help it.” Even when a relationship seems broken, or someone has hurt you, try not to destroy the connection completely. You never know when love might return in some other form. You never know when you might need someone. And you never know how someone else might need you.

That applies to grief too. Sometimes, we unintentionally burn our own bridges when we’re in pain. We push people away. We isolate. We say or do things we wouldn’t normally say or do. And sometimes grief makes us destroy the very memory of the one we loved — because remembering hurts too much.

So let this prologue carry a second purpose: a pact.

A quiet, personal promise between you and me. Between all of us who mourn.

Let us agree — grief will not destroy what we had. It will not destroy the memory. It will not destroy the good. It will not destroy our future. Yes, it will scar us. Yes, it will reshape our lives. But it will not take everything. We won’t let it.

If you’re reading this, you are still here. Still standing. Still capable of remodelling your life . And if that remodelling sometimes looks like sadness, or anger, or starting again — that’s okay.

Let this book be one companion on the road to remodelling your life.

Cancer is a brutal opponent. It doesn’t strike just once; it drags you into a relentless 10-round fight where every small victory is temporary, every reprieve is just the pause between blows. Angé fought with everything she had. For three years, she faced every round — the shock of the diagnosis, the surgeries, the endless chemotherapy, the fragile moments of hope when we thought we’d beaten it, and the crushing return of the disease that told us we hadn’t. By February 2025, we knew the truth: cancer was winning. From that moment, the fight became less about beating it and more about courage — about standing tall, even while knowing the final bell was coming.

And yet, even with all that time to prepare, nothing could ready me for the moment it would end. Preparation is an illusion. You can know it’s coming, you can whisper to yourself that you’re ready, but when the person you love takes their last breath, every ounce of readiness shatters.

It was just after six in the evening when I placed the final patch on Angé. We both knew her body was too weak for another one, but the pain was unbearable, and we needed to bring her some relief. As I pressed it against her paper-thin skin, I knew — with a clarity that froze me — that her time was down to hours. Four, maybe five.

She was lying on the couch , surrounded by family. The woman who once lit every room was now reduced to a whisper of herself. She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t drink. She couldn’t smile. Her eyes stared out, unblinking. Her mouth hung open, as if even the act of holding it closed required too much strength.

But this moment — this raw, unbearable moment — wasn’t the whole story. It began three years earlier, with a routine checkup that spiraled into a hysterectomy, a diagnosis, and a fight that consumed every ounce of our lives. We clung to hope through every round, believing that love and treatment would win the battle. But cancer had its own plans, and it showed no mercy.

When Angé died, all that time we had to “prepare” meant nothing. The pain was still as sharp, the mourning as fierce. Because that’s the truth about death — it doesn’t matter if it comes suddenly or slowly, if you’ve had years to anticipate it or seconds. It still rips a hole in your life that no preparation can stop

And so I decided to walk the Camino

Angé, you left the pain is over for you. But I am writing this book, I am writing these articles because I have so many questions.

Because I have so much pain.

I need to deal with it.

I need to find a way of understanding how I’m going to live without you.

Understanding how I’m going to take that pain and turn it into a beautiful memory of you through the Angé for Sunflowers Foundation.

I need to understand how I’m going to take that pain and look at other people and smile and laugh.

And I need to understand all these questions that come up in my mind

not necessarily about why you died.

But really because I need to mourn. I need to understand the mourning process. I need to understand the things that are going on in my life and why I’m doing them.

Or if I’m trying to rebuild my life, am I building it in a way that is forward-looking, that is constructive, that is productive? Or am I building in a way that is keeping you in the same place, just looking back the whole time at the amazing life that we had together.

The fun we had. The joy we had. The adventures we had. I need to bank those in a memory bank that I can flick through every day. But I need to be able to create new memories — not necessarily with somebody else — but just by myself or with friends. Or create new friends. Or carry on the wonderful legacy of inviting people to dinner and just being. And the wonderful legacy of talking to people just because they’re human. And the wonderful legacy of cleaning up on the beaches and making our world a better place.

So as an introduction to this book, the articles that I’ve written are the questions that I’ve asked. The questions that I’ve had in the first month after Angé’s death.

And I’m hoping that as I go through and explore these articles more and more — and perhaps as I work through the workbooks myself — that I’ll be able to make some sense of what my future looks like. And I guess that’s what this book is all about. It’s all about creating a new future. It’s about creating a new lifestyle. It’s about creating new habits, ones that can make you happy. Not ones that lead only to contentment. Because I think that might be a trap — saying, ‘Well, I’m okay now,’ when in reality you’re selling yourself short. We should be reaching, striving, doing our utmost for happiness. For those happy moments where we laugh and we can feel our whole being enveloped in that feeling of goodness. That feeling of happiness. That feeling of accepting ourselves and of being loved by others.

Before we go any further, I want to be honest about something:


1. I am not a qualified psychologist or psychiatrist.


2. This book is based purely on my personal experiences and the questions that have haunted me since Angé died.


3. It is not a definitive self-help book, but a raw and honest collection of reflections.


4. Please use, abuse, or ignore it as you see fit. There is no single right way to mourn.


5. If you want to share your own story, email me at angeforsunflowers@gmail.com or visit the website angeforsunflowers.com