Stillness and connection

Everything feels like it is in slow motion when you are absorbed by grief.

The days go slowly, yet suddenly you look up and wonder—how is it July? How have so many months passed me by? How can it be 18 months since I last saw Coop?

There are moments it feels like I’m outside of my own life, watching it unfold from a distance. I’ve never been so still in all my life. I used to be constantly moving—juggling work, family, life; always a to-do list, always on the go. Even after Cooper died, I kept going, clinging to busyness as a way to outrun the silence, the void, the unbearable absence.

But writing for Coop has made me stop.

Sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a soft blanket with my laptop on my knees, I feel something I didn’t expect: close to Cooper. There’s a calm, a quiet purpose in these moments. A connection to Cooper that can’t really be explained—but it’s real. And for once, I don’t see this time as unproductive or indulgent. I see it as sacred.

Time spent in memories is not time wasted—it’s a luxury not everyone gets.

Working on my book, building the website, learning new skills through the self-publishing course, collaborating with an illustrator—these are the things that anchor me now. They help me focus. They give shape to the grief, and more importantly, they keep Cooper’s presence alive in everything I do.

Unexpected friends

When you plan a party, you make a list of your people—the ones who matter most, the ones you count on, your VIPs. You go over that list carefully, making sure no important name is left out. These are the people you think will show up when it really counts.

Then, your world is turned upside down.

Suddenly, the people you thought you could rely on, well some are there, but others vanish. They try, but this path is hard—too hard for many. And then, out of nowhere, these amazing people appear. They check in, send love, and simply show up—whether from near or far, in whatever way you need. They don’t ask for anything. They’re just present.

And then there are the new people—the ones you meet in the darkness, through shared pain and lived experience.

Thanks to a dear friend, I found TCF (The Compassionate Friends). These are now my people. We speak a language no one wants to learn. In this space, you can be honest. You can cry, swear, say your child’s name out loud. No judgment. No expectations. Just love.

You go to a meeting and say, “I want to write a book.” At the next meeting, you read your story. They listen—not just with their ears, but with their hearts—because they know where that pain comes from. At the following meeting they ask for updates. They want to buy a copy for their grandchild. They encourage you when you think you can’t keep going. They inspire you to keep becoming the mum your child would be proud of—the mum who honours their child every day.

These women—my new friends—are warriors. They struggle to exist, but they still get out of bed. They show up. No one can understand the strength of the bond that connects us unless they’ve walked this path. We are strangers who may have had nothing in common, until grief brought us together, in a club none of us ever asked to join.

But here we are. And I admire them all, more than words can ever say.

Thank you

Sunday afternoon reflection

I spent a relaxed Sunday afternoon with lovely Elise; working on developing my website. Never did I imagine I’d need a website—or that I’d become an author. I’ve learnt so much, and today; it feels comforting to go to bed thinking of these new challenges, rather than the weight of my usual reality.

The best part of today was sharing stories about Coop as we worked on the site. Cooper loved Elise. She supported him so wholeheartedly when he stepped into his new role and made the big move to Brisbane.

You never truly know who will become a significant presence in your life as you walk the path of grief. Elise is one of those people for me. So blessed. So grateful.

Thank you Elise. x