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.

The power of a blog

When Elise — Cooper’s friend and colleague, and a dear friend to our whole family, (a steadfast support to Ash and me as we try to rebuild a new chapter, and now my incredibly patient unofficial web developer - sorry for all the messages and questions, Elise!) — suggested I start a blog, I had to Google what a blog even was.

Of course, I said, “Sure,” pretending I knew exactly what I was agreeing to. I didn’t want to seem like some old person completely out of touch. So, I looked it up and tried to wrap my head around what blogging actually involved.

From memory, nowhere in the definition did it say a blog could become a lifeline.

But that’s exactly what it’s become.

Writing down my thoughts — putting them into some kind of order — helps me process what’s swirling around in my head and heart. Reading it back while proofreading gives me a strange sort of clarity. It slows down the millions of thoughts that usually bounce around uncontrollably.

It helps.

And then, when I want to share those thoughts with the people who matter, I can just send a link.

Yes — eventually it goes public. But in doing so, I hope it might help someone else navigating their own version of loss.

So, Elise, maybe to you it was just a casual suggestion: “You should write a blog.”

But to me, it’s become so much more than that.

It’s helped me find my voice again. It reminds me that people used to care about what I had to say — and maybe, just maybe, some still do.

Thank you, my friend.

You are a godsend. A lifeline.

And a forever friend — to both Cooper and to me.

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.