Between Waves

One of the strangest parts of grief is that the world still expects you to function while your heart is completely shattered.
People talk a lot about surviving loss, but not enough people talk about what it means to still have to be “mum” while you are drowning in grief.

Just a few weeks after Woody passed away, the four of us were about to leave for a completely different life together.
We had sold most of our belongings, moved out of our house, and were preparing to travel in our campervan for the foreseeable future. We had dreams, plans, adventures waiting for us. Our little family of four was about to start a new chapter together. Then suddenly, everything stopped.
After Woody died, we ended up moving into my mum’s house. I moved back into my old bedroom and Evelyn had her own room too. It felt surreal being back there under those circumstances, like life had folded in on itself somehow.
For the first few weeks, I barely moved from my bed. My mind created a protective bubble around me because inside that room I could almost pretend none of it was real. I could tell myself I was just unwell, exhausted, grieving quietly while Woody was downstairs being cared for by somebody else but as soon as I stepped outside that bedroom, reality hit me again.
Woody wasn’t downstairs, he wasn’t coming back and our entire future had disappeared with him. So I stayed inside my little bubble because it felt safer there.

But the difficult thing is that even when your whole world collapses, people still need you. I still had Evelyn.
I knew eventually I had to start expanding that bubble, little by little, because she deserved more than a mum frozen in survival mode. Thankfully, I was surrounded by family and friends who stepped in when I couldn’t. They made sure Evelyn was loved, cared for, entertained, fed, and comforted during the moments where I simply could not function properly.
I know how lucky I am to have had that support around me because grief can be incredibly isolating.

Since losing Woody, food has felt meaningless most days. Friends would bring meals around, and honestly that helped us more than they will probably ever realise. There were days where even deciding what to eat felt impossible.
Sometimes, between all of us in the house, it would take three adults just to pull together one dinner. Even something as ordinary as cooking pasta can feel like climbing a mountain.
There were days where I would be lying in bed, emotionally paralysed, and Evelyn would ask me, “What’s for dinner?”
And somehow, despite feeling completely empty inside, I would force myself to get up and make something. Not because I wanted to or because I had energy. But because without those small acts of continuing, grief can swallow you whole.
That is the strange thing about having another child while grieving one.
Part of me wanted to completely disappear into my bed, shut the world out, and hibernate from reality forever.
And honestly, for a while, I did.
But Evelyn kept gently pulling me back toward life. Not intentionally and not by fixing anything, just by existing.
By asking for snacks, wanting cuddles, wanting cartoons on, or wanting someone to sit beside her. She gave the days structure when time itself had stopped making sense. She is our little beacon of light.
Of course there have been plenty of takeaways, beige food, days in pyjamas, and moments where motivation completely disappears. Even now, I still struggle every single day.
There are still mornings where facing the outside world feels impossible.
My anxiety is so high and unpredictable. Some days are easier than others, but the thought of going somewhere busy, especially somewhere full of children, still feels unbearable to me. I have not managed it yet.
One day Evelyn asked me if we could go to the park and I had to explain to her, as gently as I could, that parks make mummy feel very sad right now, but maybe one day we will go again. She understood, but understanding does not stop the guilt.
The guilt of saying no, the guilt of emotionally surviving instead of fully living and the guilt of knowing your child deserves the version of you that existed before your world shattered. But I am learning that surviving is not failure.
Some days surviving is the achievement.
Some days being mum means crafts, adventures, laughter, and baking cakes.
Other days it simply means staying alive, staying present, and trying again tomorrow. I am still learning how to exist in a world where one of my children is missing from it.
I am still learning how to carry unbearable grief while continuing to mother the child who still reaches for my hand every day.
And although I often feel broken, exhausted, anxious, and consumed by sadness, one thing will never change….

I am still their mum.
Woody’s mum and Evelyn’s mum.