In this blog, I share the shape grief is taking for me two months in – through walking, connection, creativity, and the quiet spaces where life is slowly rearranging itself.
June and July have been heavy months. And so, I’ve found myself leaning into the familiar rhythms. It’s my way of trying to make sense of the shifting ground beneath me.
Sharing here – one of those rhythms of my life I’ve kept playing for well over a decade – isn’t about inviting sympathy, or proving that I’m coping, or otherwise. It’s about honesty. About exploration. And about using my creative outlet, writing about what I’m thinking and noticing, to keep shaping my understanding of my changed world. Grief has altered everything, but through words, I’m slowly seeing its character.
This blog episode gathers what’s helped, what’s shifted, and what’s stayed steady. If you prefer the outdoorsy stuff, you will find a little in the coming paragraphs. For more of that, come back next week when I’ll be sharing a more ‘normal’ hiking adventure journal. But for this one, please humour me as I use this space to write my way through my current feelings.
A Constant
Everything I do at the moment is shaped by grief. The choices I make at the supermarket, the programmes I watch, the places I go, the conversations I have. It’s all touched by absence. Even joy feels different now. It’s hard to celebrate things, hard to believe in milestones. But at the same time, the little things matter more than ever. A good cup of tea. A walk with a friend. A sentence that lands right in my morning pages. These moments aren’t big or bold, but they feel quietly important. They remind me I’m still here, still noticing, still connected in some way to life as it continues.
Between the emotional weight and the endless practicalities – mountains of paperwork, forms and signatures that seem to get more complicated the more I do – it’s been easy to feel flat. There’s a constant hum of admin behind the grief, and it demands energy I often don’t have. That’s partly why my Quirky Stays mean more than just novelty. They offer a short escape from the lists and logistics. A couple of days here and there to breathe differently. To notice something curious or beautiful. To feel like myself, even just for a while.
What Grief Looks Like
I miss my husband more than I know how to say. That’s the truth at the centre of everything else. And the hardest part? It’s not the big or obvious moments; it’s the small ones. Everyday habits now missing a person. A second toothbrush. A shared takeaway. Choosing a film to watch. The kind of silence that feels louder than any noise. Grief has settled into the corners of my home, my routines, even my sentences. Sometimes I start talking aloud before realising I’m not talking to anyone. Just reaching for a moment that used to be there.
These moments are disorientating. They rise quietly and remind me how much life has changed—not just on paper, but in texture. I’ve heard that grief is love with nowhere to go, and I feel that. The tiredness it brings isn’t just in my body or mind, it’s deeper. A fog. Like I’m still here but not quite tethered.
Even just two months in, I’ve stopped expecting grief to follow rules. Instead, I’m learning its language: the pauses, the aches, the murkiness. There’s no neat way through it, but naming what I notice helps. Sharing these reflections is one small way I stay attached. A way to make space for the love that still lingers, reshaping everything it touched.
I can see, already, how grief shows up differently for all of us. Even when the grief is for the same person. Those around me who also knew him – family, friends, colleagues – are grieving the same person, but we each carry a different version. A different rhythm in how we miss him. That’s okay. It’s not a puzzle to solve, just a mosaic to honour.
What I’ve Learned About Grief (So Far)
While grief fills the corners of each day with ache and tenderness, it does allow other things in. When I’m wiling to make the space and effort, that is. Some days it even feels like I’m picking my way through it, step by step. Yet others, not so much.
Grief has already shown me how changeable it is – rising, receding, flaring without warning. I’ve learnt that it’s not something to fix or finish, but something to carry. That it’s okay to feel fine one moment and completely undone the next. That forgetfulness, tears, and even laughter all belong. There’s no ‘right’ way to do this.
I’ve also learnt not to expect clarity or obviousness. What helps is quieter than that: walking, writing, noticing small things. Connection matters: friends who show up with no expectations, music that speaks when I can’t, creative outlets that let me pour feelings into something either practical or abstract. These things don’t erase grief, but they soften the edges a little.
And I’ve learnt that joy still lives here. Smiling, laughing, enjoying something wholeheartedly, even in this changed world, is not a betrayal. It doesn’t mean I’ve moved on or stopped missing him. It means I’m still human. Still alive in this moment. The grief doesn’t disappear, but sometimes it makes joy feel sharper, more precious. I’m learning to welcome that when it comes.
I guess that somehow, I feel like I’m discovering threads that connect me to myself, to others, and to life.
Finding Connection
I’ve come to see that connection helps. Not by fixing anything, but by steadying me while I find my footing. I’ve felt it most in the kindness of my friends; their practical support, gentle invitations, and moments of silliness. A few grouped together to give me a voucher for Cook meals, now tucked into my freezer for evenings when cooking for one feels too heavy. Others have walked with me, sent random memes to make me smile, invited me out into the world. They know they can’t change what’s happened, but their presence, constant and loving, is helping me navigate the hardest days.
Music has played its part too. It’s always spoken to something deep within me, and now it offers both balm and cadence. I’ve leaned into it at home, letting songs fill the silence with memory and warmth. Seeing the BBC Concert Orchestra live, catching a show at the Bristol Hippodrome, finding myself at a The Longest Johns gig – all moments where music wrapped around emotion and gave it form. Even curating the pieces for my husband’s funeral. Choosing felt sacred. I picked what I knew would speak to him, and the notes reached everyone in the room.
And then there’s creativity, my other companion. Morning pages just for me, journal entries here on my blog, videos stitched together from memory and quiet intention. I’ve not picked up my paints yet, but I sense they’re waiting like an unopened door. I’ve a half-finished crochet project I’d love to complete before the weather cools. And perhaps a new story forming, still quiet, still shy. Creativity isn’t a solution, but it is a space: somewhere to pour feeling, to notice what’s rising, to hold grief without rushing through it.
Walking is Everything
And it won’t be any surprise for you to know that over the past couple of months, walking has become my anchor.
I’ve walked solo – along muddy tracks from Caldicot, across breezy battlefields near Worcester, and through ancient woodland around Okehampton. I’ve walked with friends too: winding paths near Stroud and Northleach filled with slow conversation and easy silences. Sarah and I explored Ironbridge and Chester, where joy surprised us in the shape of quirky signs, hearty laughs, and city charm. Closer to home, my regular walks remain a quiet constant. No planning needed, just a pair of shoes and the promise of fresh air.
Just with the other things, I don’t walk to make it all better. Or to consciously tidy my thoughts into neat conclusions. But somehow, the rhythm of walking creates space for whatever’s stirring to show itself, sometimes in the moment, sometimes long after the path ends. It’s the mix of fresh air, natural light, movement, breath, and noticing the world as it is. Nettles brushing my ankle, clouds casting spells over fields, the sound of café chatter and birdsong in tandem. It gives me a way to be with myself without needing answers.
There’s memory stitched into these miles. Like the breakfast picnic of stroopwafels and watermelon Lesley prepared along the Cotswold Way. Or the hike up Dartmoor’s Yes Tor, where wild weather tested me and lifted me all at once. Each walk, each moment, has offered softness alongside strength. Walking is not just a practice but a permission slip; an invitation to feel, connect, recalibrate, and, occasionally, to laugh without explanation.
That’s Entertainment
I’ve found other pockets of relief this month, in the entertainment I’ve consumed. Live music, theatre, stories told through video and voice, these small cultural moments have been welcome outlets. Not escapes, as with everything else, but reminders that beauty and connection still exist in the world, even when it feels dense.
Here are a few highlights.
Live Music: Friday Night Is Music Night Spying Special, Cheltenham Music Festival
As part of this year’s Cheltenham Music Festival, the BBC Concert Orchestra and Radio 3 put on a special Friday Night is Music Night concert dedicated to all things spying in Cheltenham. I was supposed to go with my husband, but given that became impossible, invited a friend to accompany me instead.
I’m so glad I didn’t miss it. Live music always fills my soul, and this performance reminded me why. The energy, the brass, the cinematic drama woven into every note; it was playful, atmospheric, and definitely moving.
You can listen back to this one on BBC Sounds, although you’ll miss out on the final piece – the Bossa Nova from Austin Powers – because they lost the live feed to the radio. Shame, as it was a great ending.
Musical Theatre: Moulin Rouge at the Bristol Hippodrome
With a sense of ‘you don’t talk to anyone during a show anyway, so why not go alone’, I booked to see Moulin Rouge at the Bristol Hippodrome as part of my second Quirky Stay (this one was VERY quirky – blog post coming soon!).
It was so fun! The show was bold, brash, and gloriously over the top. From the costume spectacle to the cheeky pop song mashups, it was escapism in sequins. I left with glitter in my thoughts and a sneaky suspicion I’ll be seeing a lot more musical theatre this year. Yes, I will miss seeing shows with my husband, it was one of the things we loved to do together. But it was good to scratch an itch, and know that I can do that solo. Moulin Rouge is on at the Bristol Hippodrome until this Saturday (9 August), and I would highly recommend it to anyone who needs a bit of sparkle.
Audiobook: Freeride, Noraly Schoenmaker (Itchy Boots)
I’ve followed Itchy Boots’ motorcycling adventures on YouTube for years, but hearing the story from the beginning in a different medium added real depth. She’s such an adventurer, travelling the world – alone – on her motorbike.
Freeride (here on Audible, here on Amazon, here at Waterstones) is Noraly’s origin story, I guess, documenting how it all began when she went off on her first expedition. And as you might imagine, this book isn’t just about the roads travelled; it’s about fear, freedom, and choosing to chase something larger than routine.
Her adventurous spirit speaks to me, especially now. Hers isn’t my story, but it reminded me of what bravery there is in writing my own. Adventure is still out there for me. It might look different to what I’d imagined, but it is there.
See You Next Time…
This has been quite a self-indulgent blog episode, but I hope you have found this insight into the world of grief as I am experiencing it interesting and maybe even useful. Grief changes shape depending on when and how I – you – look at it. And using this space to share the contours and patterns as I see them is good for me.
As I hope you will have already seen, June also brought a handful of new blog posts into the world: two hiking journals, a reflection on running through Westonbirt, and my first Quirky Stay – each one part of the patchwork of life I’m slowly stitching together. This is not a linear path by any means, but it’s mine. And so sometimes I will talk all things grief, while others will be purely outdoors, travel and/or adventure focused. It’s all part of the life that I am living.
Here’s to a August full of more of those little things that allow us all to feel connected.