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.