FROM PAIN TO PURPOSE - finishing the book

I was asked this week how I feel about finishing FROM PAIN TO PURPOSE.

I hadn’t really stopped to think about it. But the question came from a bereaved parent — and a fellow author — and it made me pause in a way I didn’t expect.

How do I feel?

Numb.

Not satisfied.

Not accomplished.

Not proud in the way people assume you should feel when you finish something big.

Because I never planned to write this book. It happened… almost by accident.

And it isn’t sadness exactly — because grief has already taken me to the deepest place imaginable, the day Cooper died. Nothing compares to that.

This feeling is different.

It’s numbness.

Confusion.

And a kind of disbelief.

Even now, I don’t really understand how it happened.

I began writing before my knee replacement — just trying to survive, just trying to cope. My surgeon asked if I was writing a diary.

I said, “No… I’m just writing.”

And then the pages kept coming.

It grew.

It developed.

Before I knew it, it became something more than words — it became a story.

My dear friend Michelle read it early on and encouraged me to keep going. She told me it mattered. That it was important. That there were people who would need it.

Then everything moved quickly — faster than I could process.

In just over 90 days, it was written, edited, and sent to the printers (with deep gratitude to All In The Edit).

Sometimes I think… if I had stopped to think too much, I might never have published it at all.

Because the only other feeling I can name is this:

Terrified.

Sharing your most intimate thoughts — your heartbreak, your vulnerability, your truth — is frightening.

All of a sudden, people will know everything.

But maybe not stopping was the point.

Maybe this is how it was meant to happen.

Not planned.

Not polished into perfection.

Just honest.

By accident… but still important.

And if it helps even one person feel less alone, then maybe that’s enough.

Copies arrive in the next 10 days. 🤍

Christmas Eve

Today is Christmas Eve.

People say “Merry Christmas” so easily. It rolls off the tongue, a bit like “How are you?” — and there’s an unspoken expectation that we smile and say it back.

But how can we, as mums who have lost children, be merry?

That word has been erased from our vocabulary — from our very being.

Now it’s simply Christmas.

Just surviving.

Just existing.

Barely hanging on.

This is our second Christmas without Coop.

Now there are only memories.

As I wrap presents, my mind drifts into a bittersweet game — imagining what I might have bought you this year, the jokes we’d share, and the one silly gift that would make us laugh for years to come.

In that game, I get to escape reality for a moment.

Because reality is this:

You are forever gone.

And I am forever here without you.

Our little family of three is incomplete, and the ache of that reality is unbearable.

Instead of planning Santa surprises under the tree — because even at 27, I would still be sneaking them in (I always loved helping Santa) — I sit at the cemetery today, writing and talking to you.

It’s usually just the two of us here.

But today the cemetery is busy — so many people carrying so much sadness.

Still, nothing feels quite like the grief of losing a child.

I love you, Coop. I hope, wherever you are, you can feel that love.

And at night, when I lie awake for hours, I wait and hope for a sign — something small to whisper, Hey Mum… I love you too.

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.