Considering a new metaphor for my current world – the grief labyrinth. And catching up on an October full of gentle adventures and bursts of energy.
Hello again, and welcome to this month’s journal. How are you doing as we settle into the darker half of the year? The clocks have shifted back, and I’m curious how you’re finding the change, whether it’s nudging you towards slower mornings, earlier evenings, or perhaps a craving for comfort and quiet. I’ve certainly felt it.
October arrived with a whisper and a yawn, don’t you think? I have tried to honour that by leaning into rest wherever I could. But with that, the shorter days have made it harder to get motivated, and I’ve found myself chasing light and warmth in small, intentional ways. It’s been a month of stormy skies and swirling winds, the kind that rattles windows and rearranges plans. But with that, it’s been a month that has invited me to pause, to wrap up, to reflect. After a very busy September, I thought October was looking uneventful in my diary, but looking back, it’s been full of little adventures.
As always, this monthly journal is a mix of reflection and storytelling – part personal processing of the world I’m living in, and recap of how life has unfolded. The first half will explore a new metaphor I’ve been working with around the grief labyrinth, and the second will catch you up on the moments that made this month feel good.
The Grief Labyrinth
The metaphor I’ve been sitting with lately is one that’s helped me make sense of the shape grief has taken in my life. It’s the idea that grief is not a straight line, not a ladder, not a cycle, not even a maze. It’s a labyrinth. A winding, enclosed path that I didn’t choose to enter, but one I now have no choice but to walk.
The afternoon my husband died, I stepped through a door I didn’t know existed. And on the other side was this – a grief labyrinth. There’s no map, no shortcuts, no way to skip ahead. Just a path that unfolds room by room, turn by turn. Lauren Artress of Veriditas writes, “The labyrinth is a spiritual tool that invites us to walk with intention, to slow down, to listen”. Although I didn’t enter through choice, and I’m being forced to walk through regardless.
Others have described grief this way; as a journey that loops back on itself, that feels disorientating and repetitive but moves forward nonetheless. The Grief Toolbox (might not be the original source) calls it “a twisting, turning path that folds back on itself”, and that resonates. Some days I feel like I’m retracing steps. Other days, I glimpse something ahead.
This metaphor hasn’t solved – and won’t solve – anything, but in some ways, it has helped me stop trying to decipher grief or work out what each day or each milestone will feel like. It’s helped me let it happen to me, at least some of the time. And that shift, small as it is, feels like a kind of grace I need. Let me (try to) explain.
No Map for the Grief Labyrinth
I didn’t choose to walk into the labyrinth. I didn’t really know it existed until the moment I was inside it. One sentence spoken on a Sunday afternoon, and the world I knew crumbled around me. I wasn’t given a warning, wasn’t handed a map, wasn’t given time to prepare. A handful of words, a door I hadn’t seen, and in I went.
Maps have always been part of my adventures. I mean, I even represent Ordnance Survey as one of their Champions. I’ve used maps to find hidden trails, quirky stays, unexpected corners of cities. They’ve helped me feel grounded and safe, even when I’ve been far from home. But now, there isn’t one. No coordinates, no route markers, no reassuring “you are here” dot. Just a path that reveals itself one step at a time, whether I’m ready or not.
From that moment, I was no longer in control. Circumstance took everything from me. And even now, months later, I still don’t get to choose how this unfolds. Updates from the police, the coroner, the bank, the pension company – they all arrive unannounced, in emails and envelopes and phone calls that land like stones in my day. I don’t get to schedule grief. I don’t get to opt out. I just have to respond, again and again, to whatever comes.
Everything is different now. The world, my beliefs, my body, my sense of time. I didn’t choose this route, I can’t control the terrain, but I must keep walking, even when I don’t know where I am going. The path, however winding, is still a path.
The Structure of the Labyrinth
The hardest truth of all: there is no going back. Nothing I do, nothing anyone does, can change the outcome of that day. The door into the grief labyrinth doesn’t swing both ways. The only option, as horrible and unfair as it is, is to move forward. To keep walking, even when the route feels impossible.
One of the things I’ve come to understand is that the grief labyrinth isn’t universal. It’s personal. Each of us who loved him – as a husband, a son, a brother, a friend – is walking our own version of it. We might cross paths, share moments, even sit together in the same room for a while. But the layout is different for each of us. The pace is different. The turns come at different times.
Some rooms are quiet. I’ve found myself in spaces that feel soft and slow, where I can breathe and reflect and even laugh a little. Other rooms are overwhelming, full of noise, memory, paperwork, decisions I didn’t want to make. Sometimes I don’t realise I’ve entered a new space until I’m deep inside it. Sometimes I only recognise it in hindsight, when I’ve already left.
I only ever see a small stretch of the path at a time. I might think I’m retracing steps, only to realise I’m somewhere entirely new. A letter arrives. A song plays. A friend says something kind. And suddenly I’m in a different part of the labyrinth, with no warning and no clear way back. These shifts are real. They shape my days. And while I can’t predict them, I’m learning to notice them.
Who I am Inside the Grief Labyrinth
It’s not just my life that changed. It’s the whole world. Or at least, the world as I knew it. The rules, the rhythms, the way things used to make sense – all of it shifted the moment I stepped into the labyrinth. And now I have to learn to live within this new version of reality. A world where he is gone. A world that feels unfamiliar, even when I’m standing in places I’ve known for years.
Which also means I’ve changed. I didn’t just lose someone I loved – I lost the version of myself who existed before. The person I was in mid-May is unreachable now. Even if I make my way through the labyrinth, even if I reach some kind of exit, the thing that pushed me in will still be true. Still irreversible. And I will still be someone new.
And I really don’t know who that is. Who am I?
The idea of living inside the grief labyrinth permanently is not something I’m ready to accept. When I start to think about the consequences – what this means for my future, for my identity, for the shape of my days – my brain can’t resolve it. It’s too big. Too layered. Too much.
I noted the following in my morning pages one day after being shown something on Instagram (sorry, I didn’t note the author): “Those who grieve walk its path as it winds back and forth, in and out, day after day, winding back upon itself and out again”. That’s what it feels like. A constant movement. A reshaping. A life lived inside something I don’t understand.
Letting it Happen
One of the unexpected gifts of the labyrinth metaphor is that it gives my grief a shape. Not a tidy one, not a predictable one, but a shape nonetheless. And that’s helpful to my brain. It means I can picture where I am, even if I don’t know exactly how I got here. It means I can stop trying to flatten grief into something linear or logical. I can let it be what it is: winding, layered, strange.
Some days, I let the room I’m in take over. I sit in my grief. I give into the tiredness, cancel plans, cry. I stare out of windows and let the walls hold me. And other days, I feel able to move. I find the next door, take a step, do something proactive – write, walk, talk, tidy, plan something fun. I don’t always know what triggers one or the other, but I’m learning to trust it. To let it happen.
I guess I won’t see the whole shape until I’ve walked the path, until I’ve reached the centre and found my way out again. And even then, the meaning might only emerge in fragments, in hindsight, in the quiet moments when I look back and realise how far I’ve come. Maybe.
I realise that this is what my quirky stays are about. They give me space to sit in my grief when I need to, and to be proactive when I can. They’re little waypoints in the labyrinth, places where I purposefully pause, reflect, and then gently keep moving. I know the labyrinth is not a puzzle to be solved, but a journey to be lived. That’s what I’m doing. Living it. One room at a time.
Too Hard to Explain
Labyrinths are hard to explain. That’s part of their nature. They don’t make much sense, not fully. And I know these musings have not been particularly well refined (not my best work). Maybe one day I’ll return to this idea and be able to communicate it more succinctly.
The inability to explain it all is what makes this metaphor both frustrating and strangely comforting. I can’t map it out. I can’t predict the next turn. But I can choose to let it happen to me. I can choose to notice where I am, to name the room I’m in, to rest or move as I’m able. I can try, gently and imperfectly, to work out what my life is now, in this new world I didn’t ask for but must now live within.
I keep walking. Some days with purpose. Some days with resistance. Some days with a kind of quiet curiosity. The labyrinth is still unfolding, and I am still here.
And it’s in the spirit of noticing where I’ve been that I keep sharing my life as I live it – in these journal posts, my quirky stays videos, the hikes I’ve been on, and even in running my annual One Hour Outside November Challenge. Talking about the moments that offer light, connection, and joy in the midst of it all, helps me see my way through the labyrinth. And they will be the things that mean I can maybe even look forward to what might come next.
October Recap
October arrived with a whisper and a promise of rest, and while I tried to honour that, it turns out the month held more than I expected. Autumn leaves, a pudding date, three musicals, one quirky stay, and a handful of gentler adventures from home. Here’s what made this month feel alive…
A Teapot and a Tall Spruce
I spent a beautiful day at Westonbirt Arboretum with my mother-in-law, wandering through the trees just as autumn began to blush. We admired the acers, stroked the Sequoias (yes, really), and I learned that there are now more coastal redwoods in the UK than in California – did you know that?! But the real star of the show was the Serbian Spruce: tall, pointy, and weirdly majestic. I’ve officially declared it my favourite tree of all time. Put a star on top and call it Christmas!!
Later in the month, I headed to London for a weekend of family, theatre, and delightfully contrasting accommodation. One night in a central hotel on the Strand, complete with a doorman to open the front door and a teapot in my room (a detail that brought me disproportionate joy). The next night, I swapped grandeur for minimalism with my first-ever stay in a capsule hotel, which will feature in my next quirky stays blog and video.
As always when I go to London, I walked – and walked. I did two VoiceMap tours around Covent Garden and the West End, A Hidden History of Covent Garden, and the Theatreland Tour narrated by Ian McKellen (which is a free one). There was a little overlap between the two, but they were both good, and well worth my time. A somewhat rain-soaked Haunted London walk with London Walks in the Monument area made it three tours and 30,000 steps in one day! I also ate, of course, including at old favourite Flat Iron and the pudding-only Humble Crumble. And yes, I saw not one but two shows in one day… more on those in a moment.
Cliff Railways and Local Wanders
Sarah and I spent a gloriously moochy day in Bridgnorth, which sits about halfway between us. It’s fair to say we got far too excited about the old Cliff Railway… Built in 1892 to save locals from climbing 200 steep steps, it became a tourist attraction and is now the oldest and steepest inland funicular in Britain. We rode it (just once), chatted to the lovely people running it, and were even offered a job! (Don’t worry, boss, I didn’t accept.) We also enjoyed lunch in the newly opened Winding House Café (highly recommend), mid-afternoon cake in another, and explored this charming Victorian town on foot.
There were other joys too: a lunchtime One Hour Outside walk with a friend, school-night bowling with others, and a genius pudding date with a good friend at a local pub (just pudding, no mains — if you’ve never done this, you absolutely should). I took a long rainy walk on my local hill and did a VoiceMap tour of Tewkesbury, where I learned it’s named after a hermit and was bypassed by the Industrial Revolution. Naturally, I visited the chocolate shop and brought home treats to last a week – of course I did.
In between all that, I’ve been trying to carve out space for rest. For frittering, as I wrote about in my Mushroom Cabin blog – doing things for their own sake, without goal or purpose. I’m slowly building new habits, gently testing what feels good, and letting the quieter moments count just as much as the busy ones.
It’s Show Time!
I’ve said in previous journals over the last few months that I’m really leaning into live plays, stage shows, and musicals at the moment. This has always been a genre of entertainment I’ve loved, but for some reason, it’s the thing that’s really doing it for me in this strange, shifting life inside the grief labyrinth. There’s something about the energy, the storytelling, the experience – it lifts me, even if just for a couple of hours. October gave me three very different shows, in three very different venues, and each one offered its own kind of magic.
Friends! The Musical Parody: Everyman Theatre, Cheltenham
I took a punt on Friends! The Musical Parody last minute and I’m so glad I did. Clever, funny, and packed with 90s nods, Friends! The Musical Parody was a joyful evening of escapism. The cast was brilliant, especially Alicia Belgarde, whose vlogs I also enjoy – and the musicality was genuinely impressive. It didn’t just celebrate the show’s iconic moments; it also gently took the mickey out of 90s humour and cultural quirks, questioning some of the tropes that haven’t aged all that well. I wouldn’t call myself the world’s biggest Friends fan, but this show was well produced, well acted, and full of affectionate satire. A great way to spend a night out.
The Lion King: Lyceum Theatre, London
This was the first half of a very extravagant two-show day in London, and what a spectacle it was. The Lyceum has hosted The Lion King since 1999 (27 years!!!!). The production is slick, the costumes are stunning, and the set design is breathtaking. I saw it with family, and while there was an empty seat in our row where my husband should have been, because this one had been booked for months, I’m so glad we went to see it together. The story of the Lion King remains timeless – a tale of loss, identity, and belonging – and the music stirred something deep, familiar and aching, especially in the context of my own grief.
Operation Mincemeat: Fortune Theatre, London
Just around the corner from the Lyceum, in the much smaller Fortune Theatre, I saw Operation Mincemeat, a superb new comedy musical with a cast of just five, all playing multiple roles and barely leaving the stage. I already knew the story (thanks to history and the recent film of the same name), but this version was sharp, witty, and brilliantly performed. It was so well rehearsed; razor-sharp and fast-paced. I laughed a lot. I’d happily see it again – I reckon I’d catch even more the second time. The Fortune itself is tiny, with absolutely zero leg room and fewer than 500 seats (to the Lyceum’s 2,000 plus), but that intimacy made it all the more special. I could see the actors’ eyes. And that made it feel personal. So good. Go and see it!
In the Mail
This month’s post brought a satisfying flurry of outdoorsy deliveries, the kind that hint at future plans and help make everyday life a little easier.
First up, a hiking guidebook from Cicerone for a route I’m planning with a friend next spring. It’s one of those books that is more than an invitation, full of maps, notes, and possibilities. A little way off yet, but still, something to look forward to.
Alongside that, a set of merino blend base layers (tights and top) from my good friends at Isobaa, ready for the winter adventure I briefly alluded to in last month’s journal. They’re soft, warm, and fit really well, so I at least know I won’t get cold on that trip!
Mac in a Sac sent over some of their latest Venture Series performance outerwear, which I’m hoping will help me stick to my One Hour Outside ritual through November, whatever the skies decide to do. They also included their Travelite packable waterproof backpack, and I’ve been genuinely impressed. It’s become my go-to top-up shop bag; 20 litres, fully waterproof (5,000mm) with a roll top, zipped pockets, and even a sternum strap to help distribute the weight. It’s one of those items that’s far more useful in practice than I expected from the web description. Proper kit, quietly brilliant. Thanks!
Have you had One Hour Outside today?
If you’ve made it this far in my monthly journal, then I have an invitation for you… I’d love you to join me in my annual One Hour Outside November Challenge, which started this weekend. The idea is simple: spend some time outside every day in November, in whatever way works for you. It could be a walk, a sit, a mooch, a moment with your morning coffee – anything that gets you out into the world.
I started this challenge 11 years ago (!), and it’s become one of my favourite rituals. It’s not about being sporty or productive, it’s about noticing, breathing, and gently reconnecting with yourself and your surroundings. And while I wondered if I should put the effort into running it again this year, the fact is that – especially in this season of grief and rebuilding – it helps me stay grounded.
You can follow along on social media using #OneHourOutside (I’m aiming to post daily) – or just do it quietly, for you. I promise it’s worth it.
See You Next Time…
This month’s journal has been a bit more rambly than usual, something of a winding path through grief metaphors, autumn adventures, theatre joy, and other things. I hope the musings on the labyrinth made sense, and continue to explain something of the life I’m living now: layered, strange, and very much still unfolding.
Thanks for reading. If you’ve got a musical or play recommendation, I’d love to hear it in the comments below. I’ve already got Death on the Nile and Barnum booked for next year, both touring productions, and I’m particularly excited to see Christmas Carol Goes Wrong by Mischief Theatre (of The Play that Goes Wrong and Comedy About Spies fame) later this month. What else should be on my list?
And if you fancy a gentle fritter with a cup of tea, my quirky stays videos are over on YouTube – there’s a playlist of five so far with two more to come very soon. You can read the blog versions here on Splodz Blogz, too. I’m still taking recommendations for the next series – so comment away!
Take care, and I’ll see you next time.
