What Grief Taught Me

There’s so much advice out there about grief — especially online. Words of comfort, encouragement, and so-called wisdom about how to move forward. But the reality is, for many of us, especially mothers, we don’t want to move on.

We live with our grief. Not because we’re stuck, but because we loved deeply. Grief, for us, is love with nowhere to go.

In a world that values “getting better” and “being strong,” that can be hard to explain. Society wants tidy endings — resolution. Healing. Smiles. But the kind of loss we’ve experienced doesn’t work that way. When you lose a child, you don’t return to who you were before. You live with the absence. You learn to carry it.

I used to say the things people say: They’d want you to live. You’ll be okay. Time heals. I know those words came from good intentions — from a desire to help, to comfort. But now, from where I stand, I understand how those words can miss the mark. It’s not that they’re wrong — it’s that they’re incomplete.

When someone is grieving, they don’t always need advice. They don’t need to be fixed. They need to be seen. Held. Remembered. They need someone who’s willing to sit beside the pain, even though they can’t make it go away.

If I didn’t know how to do that before — it’s because I hadn’t yet learned what grief really is.

Losing a child is not the same as losing anyone else. It’s losing a future, a piece of your identity, a love that was supposed to last forever. It’s losing a part of yourself that you can never get back.

So now, when I think about grief, I think less about “getting through it,” and more about honoring it. About giving it the space it deserves.

This isn’t a post to point fingers or hold grudges. It’s not even an apology.

It’s a reflection — on what I’ve learned, what I now understand, and what I’ll never forget.

Grief has taught me that love doesn’t end. It doesn’t fade. And it doesn’t need to be hidden to make others more comfortable.

If you’re grieving, you’re not broken. You’re human. And if you know someone grieving — say their loved one’s name. Don’t be afraid of their sadness. Be present in it.

We don’t move on. We make space for grief, because love like this never leaves.

Why are we afraid to use the word “die”?

Why does the word “die” scare people?

When I wrote “Do You Look at the Sky?”, a good friend and early-years colleague gently asked if I really wanted to include that word — die. I had used it openly and without fear. Their question made me pause. It prompted deep reflection on how we use language around death, especially with children.

After much contemplation, I decided: yes, I’m keeping it in. It sat right with me.

Children need honesty. Euphemisms like passed away, gone to heaven, went to sleep, crossed over, or even put down aren’t clear. They're vague. Children don’t sugarcoat their questions — why should we sugarcoat our answers?

Children are naturally honest. Their world is direct, filled with curiosity and clear-eyed observations. Being truthful about death helps them build a healthier relationship with grief. It equips them to talk about it, ask questions, and begin to understand it — often better than we do as adults.

Society, on the other hand, tends to soften the language. We say things like “they're in a better place,” thinking it comforts the bereaved. But does it really? What’s real is: they have died. That is what happened. And acknowledging that truth can be a first step in healing.

So yes — I kept the word in the story. I didn’t run from the reality. I leaned into it, to help children process death and to support the adults reading with them, giving everyone a shared language grounded in honesty.

This reflection came up again as I wrote another story — one that spoke of plants, animals, and people. I read it aloud to my husband and son. They were shocked by how often I used the word die. “Children will be terrified,” they said.

Children fear what we teach them to fear. If we treat grief like something to hide from, they will, too. If we flinch at the word die, so will they. We model emotional avoidance rather than resilience. That’s what many of us grew up with — and what we unconsciously pass down.

We could learn so much from cultures that allow grief to be visible — that speak of the dead, sit with sorrow, and normalise mourning. Cultures where it's not shameful to cry, not awkward to talk about a loved one who’s gone, not strange to visit a grave and speak out loud.

Because the truth is this: when someone dies, they are not coming back. That’s the reality. And the only word that honestly explains the finality of that moment is die.

Use clear, honest language. Practice being comfortable with the word die. When we do that, we help children understand death in a healthier, more grounded way.

And maybe, just maybe, we help ourselves too.

Little Brown Bird

What a week it has been.

I’ve officially registered for an ABN, chosen a business name, and opened a business bank account. A huge step — and one that feels deeply personal.

But why Little Brown Bird?

It only recently dawned on me…….. it’s always been about the bird. 

In the early days after Coop died, Beth sent me a video – a small, precious moment from Phillip Island. In it, Coop is playfully mocking our love of birdwatching (I know right, who would have thought we’d ever get into bird watching?). With his best David Attenborough impressions, he says “Look at these birds, so rate, only found at Phillip Island”. It makes me smile every time l watch it and l’m so grateful Beth shared it with me. It’s a reminder of his humour, his voice, and his joy.

Not long after that, a bird call started visiting me every morning. A yellow-tail honeyeater — its call sounded like it was saying “get up, get up.” Like a message from beyond. For months, it came, calling me out of bed, reminding me to keep going.

Then came the little brown bird.

Every day it would appear. Sometimes when I opened the curtains at the front of the house, sometimes at the back door, often on the woodshed roof. Other times, if I hadn’t seen it, I’d wonder where it was — and like magic, it would appear. It followed me quietly, gently, hopping along fences, flitting across the garden, unconcerned by the dogs or my presence. Just… there.

That’s when I realised — the bird had always been with me. Watching. Comforting. A companion on this path I never asked to walk.

Little Brown Bird felt like the only name that made sense.

It also connects to Bunjil, the creator in Indigenous culture — a presence I deeply respect, especially through my friend Murrundindi. I’ve been lucky enough to witness Bunjil circling above us more than once — an experience that felt powerful and sacred.

So here I am, starting something new, with the quiet strength of that little brown bird beside me. A small, steady guide. A comfort. A symbol of something greater.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me, little brown bird!🐦