Love, memory and connection

A few weeks ago, I met a man at the cemetery. We have spoken a few times. Last time, he came quietly, carrying a small gift—incense and rosary beads—and told me he prays for Cooper every day.

He spoke softly about his wife, who had only recently passed away. I talked about Cooper, about the light he brought into our lives and the void left behind.

In that moment, grief felt both strange and beautiful.

Here we were—two strangers connected by loss, sharing pieces of our hearts in a place where silence usually reigns.

What struck me most was how meaningful these new connections are. To be allowed—and even encouraged—to speak openly about the person we love and have lost is a rare and precious gift. It opens the heart in ways that words alone cannot fully capture.

Most people show how uncomfortable they are when we mention someone who has died. It’s like grief is something to avoid, a topic too heavy to bear. But here, with this man who prays daily for my son, grief became a bridge instead of a barrier.

This shared understanding, this mutual respect for loss, means the world.

Grief is strange. It isolates us in some ways, but it can also bring unexpected connections that remind us we are not alone.

I encourage you—if you know someone grieving—to say the name of the person they’ve lost. Speak it aloud. You will open their heart and help their light shine. You will not make them feel worse—because there is no “worse.” There is only love, memory, and connection.

Creativity in unexpected places

The other day, I sat at the cemetery and started drawing images of birds. I was designing my logo—definitely no copyright issues when you create, draw, and paint it yourself! Turning those hand-drawn sketches into a digital image has been a whole new adventure. Oh, the things I never knew were possible with technology!

The cemetery has become a place where my mind feels still. I can sit on Cooper’s chair — such a beautiful tribute, and we are so grateful the cemetery allowed us to donate it.

As I sat there, birds were going crazy all around me—ducking and weaving through the trees, making a joyful racket, calling to each other across the land. It was like nature’s own symphony, and I felt deeply connected—to Cooper, to creativity, and to the world around me.

Birds have always symbolised freedom, hope, and the journey of the soul. Watching them, I felt a sense of peace and possibility—a reminder that even in grief, life moves forward, and healing can take flight.

I can almost hear Cooper saying, “Mum, what are you doing here?” But I’m pretty sure he’d be happy to know that, at the very least, I was being productive.

This creative process—connecting with nature, honoring Cooper’s memory, and transforming my emotions into art—is at the heart of what I hope to share through my work. It’s about finding light and meaning even in the hardest times, and offering that to others who are navigating their own journeys of grief and healing

Stepping into something new

I never imagined I'd be here — on the edge of something completely new.

After 20 months away from work, I’m investing in something that may or may not succeed. I’m putting time, energy, and money into a dream. Into an idea.

Am I completely mad?

Imposter syndrome has never been louder.

After years of study and gaining formal qualifications, I’m now stepping into a space with no clear criteria. No certificate. No governing body. No one to say, “Yes, you’ve made it.”

I’m calling myself an author. Just like that.

When I completed my teaching studies, someone reviewed the evidence and said, “Yes, you’ve met the criteria.”

But what’s the criteria for being an author?

A bestseller?

An award?

A Book Week mention?

Writing is a new world for me — far from my roots in early childhood education and leadership.

So, this leap into writing? It feels risky. Unreal. Like something meant for other people.

But I know this: writing connects me to my son, Cooper. It helps my heart heal. And in some small but meaningful way, it keeps him alive.

So I’m doing it.

I’m stepping fully into this new chapter — uncertain, but all in.

When people ask me what I do, I’m going to say:

“I’m about to publish my first children’s picture book.”

And I’m going to own it!