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!

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.