A Small Light in the Dark

A Small Light in the Dark: Writing My Way Through Another Year Without Him

Cooper should be turning 27. And yet here I sit, quietly missing him, holding the weight of another year he doesn’t get to live.

I find myself hoping for even the smallest sign — something to let me know he’s close. But I also smile at the thought that he’s probably far too busy… socialising, laughing, living exactly as he would have.

No time for his mum — and isn’t that the bittersweet truth of raising strong, independent children? In life, I taught him to fly, and now he has flown far beyond my reach.

The ache of his absence never softens, but especially not on days like today.

Finding Purpose in the Lead-Up to Coop's Birthday

Over the past months, as this day approached, I found myself needing something gentle to hold onto — something that honored Coop while giving me a sense of purpose.

So I began writing.

Little by little, in the quiet, a story formed.

Today, I’m sharing that I’ve written a children’s book to honor Cooper — and to honour all the children who were taken far too soon.

The story began as an idea for my family, so that future generations would know him — the family member they will never get to meet. But as I wrote, I realised this story holds meaning for so many others:

• for every child who loves someone they’ve never met,

• or only knew for a short time,

• but who remains part of their family’s heart.

It is a story about connection, memory, and the love that stays.

A Gift for Coop, and for Other Families

Writing this book has helped me survive the heaviness of these months. It brought comfort into a space that often feels unbearably quiet.

So today, on Cooper’s 27th birthday, my gift to him is this:

I am releasing the cover of my children’s book, and pre-sales are officially open. It will be available in early 2026.

My hope is that this story offers comfort to other families trying to keep their child’s memory (or another family member's memory) alive for future generations —a small light in the dark for anyone carrying a love that never ends.

Always missing you, Coop. Forever 25. Forever loved.

The Hollow “How Are You?”

In a world where we ask everyone we see, “How are you?” I often wonder why we do this. So often, it is said without meaning — without truly caring about the answer.

We have this façade of pretending to care, pretending that we notice things, encouraging events like “Are You OK Day?” While society rightly focuses more on mental health, in our everyday lives, those who genuinely show up and consistently care are far fewer than we might hope.

At one stage, I thought this was just me — just my social and professional network. But through connecting with other grieving mums, I’ve realised this is the norm. Support often comes with a timeline. People show up for a short while, and when you reach out, many quickly retract.

Grief is ugly. We want to talk about our child who is no longer here, to remember their stories, to share our trauma. There is disbelief — even shame — but speaking about our pain might help us process it, it is an essential part of living in this new reality.

Grief talk is painful and messy. Usually for the recipient. For the mum, it is just life — something we have grown accustomed to.

So, when I see posts asking, “Are you ok?” from people who never actually asked me, or asked but didn’t want the answer, I can’t help but think: what a mockery. A joke. Standing on their soapboxes, proclaiming they care.

I implore people to consider the words they so casually drop: perhaps replace “How are you?” with something different — “Nice to see you today,” or “Welcome to our shop.” Grieving mums don’t need that question. The last thing we want is to evaluate how we are. The honest answer is often: we’re shattered. Every day is a reliving of unbearable loss.

Very few ever stop to really listen, to sit with us in the pain. They just want a quick answer, satisfied they asked the question. If you truly want to connect, don’t ask. Stand beside us. Notice us. Say anything else — anything that shows you see us, not just a social obligation.

Protecting your heart

It’s only now, deep in grief, that I truly understand what every “Sorry, I can’t make it” really feels like. Each one is another wedge between me and the people I thought cared — a quiet fracture in what I hoped was connection.

I’ve lost count of how many messages arrive on the very day we were meant to catch up. A quick, last-minute ‘sorry’. Or worse, no message at all — just silence.

What they don’t realise is that I plan my whole week around these moments. I decline other invitations, knowing I can only manage one social engagement before my “social cup” overflows. I schedule the day, I’ll wash my hair because self-care feels like a mountain now — and in grief, taking care of yourself can feel almost wrong.

I wait for a response about a time, sometimes for days, already knowing the apology will come too late.

Before grief, I might have been guilty of this kind of last-minute cancelation. But honestly, I don’t think so. Keeping commitments was a priority for me. Still, I understand now: people believe their world is more important — their schedules, their lives — and I get it.

If only they knew how much every reschedule shatters me.

Once you let me down, I’m unlikely to reach out again. It’s not that I don’t forgive or understand. It’s that I’m protecting what’s left of my heart — fragile, broken, and barely holding on. Even breathing hurts.

So when I’m let down, I try to file the heartbreak away, to not feel it fully.

And then I tell myself: You were once my friend. We were once connected. But now, life is different.

And I add your name to the “I remember when” memory.

I still smile when I think of you — holding space for the version of life where we were still connected, and things hadn’t yet fallen apart.