It has been a year since my mum died.
That sentence still feels strange to write. Not sharp anymore, but heavy. Like a stone I’ve learned how to carry, even if I still don’t know where to put it down.
In the early days, grief was everywhere. Loud. Consuming. It took up the whole room. I couldn’t see past it or around it, and I didn’t try to. Survival was the only goal.
Now, a year on, grief has changed shape.
It’s no longer the only thing in the room, but it’s always there. In the periphery. A quiet presence that follows me through ordinary days. It shows up when I least expect it. In moments that are supposed to be neutral, or happy, or forgettable. A smell. A sentence. A memory I didn’t invite.
I’ve learned that growing around grief doesn’t mean leaving it behind.
It means your life slowly expands. You build routines again. You laugh, plan, work, create. You make space for new experiences while grief stays exactly where it is. Not smaller. Not lighter. Just no longer the centre of everything.
I used to think healing meant moving on. I don’t believe that anymore.
Healing, for me, has looked like learning how to live with the absence. Accepting that love doesn’t disappear just because someone does. Understanding that missing her is not a problem to solve, but a consequence of having loved deeply.
There are days I feel strong and capable and almost like myself again. There are days when the ache returns without warning and reminds me that this isn’t something you finish. It’s something you carry.
Grief has shaped me this year.
It has softened me and hardened me at the same time. It has made me more honest about what matters and less patient with what doesn’t. It has taught me how fragile everything is, and how precious ordinary days can be.
I still miss my mum. I think I always will.
And maybe that’s not a failure of healing. Maybe that’s proof that love doesn’t have an expiry date.
One year on, I’m not “over it.” I’m just growing around it.
And I think that’s enough.
