A monthly journal of grief, growth, and everyday adventures – from the loss of myself to light found outside.
Welcome back to my monthly journal. If you’ve been following each episode over the last few months, you’ll know the deal by now. The first half is devoted to my musings on grief; the raw, complicated, and often surprising ways it continues to shape me. And the second half shifts into the lighter side of life lived, with adventures, reviews, and small joys stitched into everyday moments.
My December journal episode begins with National Grief Awareness Week and the theme of Growing with Grief, which feels especially poignant as I reflect on the loss not only of my husband but of the version of myself I used to be. I write about birthdays, routines, and the strange rewiring that grief seems to bring, before moving into brighter territory: my One Hour Outside recap, a quirky stay in a helicopter, and some festive highlights from markets and theatre. There’s also a little indulgence in new crockery and a cheerful yellow chair, plus my regular That’s Entertainment section with reviews of books, film, and stage.
So please, go and make a cup of tea, get sat down in your favourite chair, and read this one all the way through. It’s a journal of contrasts, heavy and light, sorrow and joy, and I hope it offers both recognition and encouragement as we move through December.
National Grief Awareness Week
I’m starting here because I didn’t even know National Grief Awareness Week existed until I found myself facing grief head-on. And I suspect many others I know are also unaware. Led by The Good Grief Trust, from 2 to 8 December in 2025, the aim is simple but profound: to shine a light on grief in all its forms, to remind us that loss touches every part of life, and to help ensure that no one feels alone in it.
This year’s theme is “Growing with Grief”. I find that phrase both comforting and unsettling. Growth sounds hopeful, but it also acknowledges that grief changes us in ways we never asked for. It reshapes who we are, and sometimes that reshaping feels like loss all over again – more on that in a moment.
What I have discovered, though, is how much other people’s words on grief have helped me. Reading their reflections has made me feel less isolated, less strange in my own experience. And it is with that in mind that I write my own reflections here on my blog, in the hope that my words might do the same for someone else. A moment of recognition, perhaps, or simply to remind another grieving soul that they are not alone.
With that theme in mind, this week feels like the right time to share some musings on something I’ve only recently begun to understand: that grief isn’t just about losing someone you love, it’s also about losing yourself.
The Loss of Myself
Not only is grief turning into a complicated and overwhelming labyrinth of corridors and rooms from which I cannot escape, but over the last few weeks, I’ve also come to learn that it goes even deeper. This isn’t only about losing my husband. It’s also about losing me. The Zoe I was in May no longer exists. She’s gone, and no matter how much I want to slip back into her skin, I can’t. I am different now. Changed – changing – in ways I didn’t choose, altered by absence and by time. I’ve read that mourning can even change us chemically, rewiring the body as well as the mind. And I feel that truth.
I think it’s okay to admit (and if it isn’t I’m doing so anyway), that I catch myself longing for the earlier version of myself. The one that didn’t think twice about a lot of things. The one who laughed without hesitation, planned weekend adventures knowing there was always someone to share them with, and most of the time felt anchored in her own identity. Who, while a terribly awkward human in many ways, with issues and difficulties and the rest, was confident, always doing her best to make the most of the now while dreaming big for the years to come. And as I was reminded just the other day, was chosen to carry the London 2012 olympic torch because of her positive outlook on life. Who was, at least, whole.
But she is unreachable. I can’t go back. And so grief becomes not just mourning the person I loved, but mourning the person I was when I loved him.
Who Am I?
It feels final, this shift. Like a door has closed behind me, and I’m left standing in a new room I don’t yet recognise (back to that labyrinth metaphor again). Who even am I now? The question echoes louder than I expected, especially this month when my birthday arrived. I hadn’t realised how triggering that milestone would be. Birthdays are supposed to mark growth, celebration, continuity. But this one pressed hard against the reality of change. It forced me to look at myself and admit: I am not the same.
My husband loved to bake. He was good at it. And my birthday made me miss that small thing even more than I already did. A lovely soul knew this and sent me cake in the post. It was such a small thing, but it carried so much tenderness, and I found it thoughtful and kind. The cake itself was sweet, but it was the gesture – the recognition – that has stayed with me.
That evening, I went to see A Christmas Carol Goes Wrong by The Mischief Theatre (mini review further down this blog). I should have been sitting there with the person who booked it for me months ago, laughing together at the chaos on stage. Instead, I was there as one half of a couple that no longer exists, with no-one to ask me just how many different versions of A Christmas Carol I might watch this year. It was a reminder that even the things I once loved feel different now, because the person who made them part of my life isn’t here to share them.
Finding New Routines
And yet, I’m trying. I’ve booked to go away at Christmas, to do something very different with a week I admit I’m dreading. I hope it will rekindle that part of me that used to thrive on putting myself in situations where I feel wild and free. I hope it will create a new memory, one that helps me see who I am now, not just who I was.
The truth is, I don’t even have a routine anymore. I’m not motivated to get up in the morning and make tea so he can get to work on time. I’m not motivated to keep the house clean and tidy. Dinner feels impossible at times, with no one to ask what we’re having; even the smallest choices take an age and all my energy. Even things like opening the post or deciding when to put a wash on can feel overwhelming; tasks that once slotted naturally into our shared life now sit heavily, demanding more thought and energy than I ever imagined.
It’s the day-to-day things that undo me. I check my bank account so often it’s silly, as if reassurance could be found in numbers. I don’t know how to properly set the heating or trust that I’m not wasting electricity. The computer keeps telling me it’s run out of space, and I don’t know what to do about that either. These tiny, practical details pile up until they feel like mountains.
Growing with Grief
Now, please don’t worry that I’m incapable of functioning as an adult; I share these small examples to show how much my brain has shifted. Tasks, and even characteristics, that once felt automatic now demand far more energy. The thick fog of grief makes learning and deciding feel heavier than before. It’s not that I can’t do them, it’s that I’m having to start again, as a different version of myself.
Grief isn’t only about big, sweeping emotions. In fact, I’d suggest it’s hardly about those at all. It’s about the loss of the everyday routines, the loss of the self who once moved through them with ease, the loss of the things that were so deeply a part of me I didn’t give them a second thought. I am not that Zoe anymore. Something has shifted deep inside me, emotionally, physically, even chemically. And while I resent being forced into this change, I must find a way through.
National Grief Awareness Week has reminded me that growth can come from grief, even when it feels unwelcome. For me, that growth looks like slowly, awkwardly, sometimes reluctantly, meeting this new Zoe with compassion. I don’t yet know her, but I am learning – one small decision, one act of courage, and yes, One Hour Outside, at a time.
I feel I’m becoming less eloquent in how I describe these thoughts on grief. But I’ll keep writing, because even imperfect words help me process what I’m thinking and feeling. If you’ve come across someone else’s reflections on grief that resonated with you, I’d love it if you shared them with me, as their words might help me, too, just as I hope mine might offer recognition or comfort to someone else.
November Recap
Which brings me onto my November recap… as it has, of course, been One Hour Outside challenge month. There’s already a standalone post up on Splodz Blogz, so I won’t labour the details here – if you’re curious about the ins and outs of November, that post gives you more of a play-by-play than I’d normally include in one of these monthly journals. But I do want to pause and let you know that I did actually manage to get outside every single day in November.
Some days were harder than others. Midway through the month, Storm Claudia rolled in with rain so heavy I genuinely can’t remember the last time I saw weather like it. It was horrendous – sideways sheets of water, puddles that swallowed pavements, the kind of storm that makes you question your decision to step out the front door. And then there were the very busy working days, when squeezing in even a short walk felt like a logistical puzzle.
But I know I feel better when I get time outside, so it’s worth prioritising, even if it means heading out in the evening after work, torch in hand, just to stretch my legs and breathe in the damp evening air. At least now there are Christmas lights to look at, twinkling against the darkness, offering a little cheer as the days grow shorter. Those small moments of brightness make the effort feel worthwhile, and remind me why this challenge matters.
Sleeping in a Helicopter
A particular highlight of my month was heading to Lincolnshire for the final instalment in my first Quirky Stay series. And this one really was something special: I stayed in a helicopter. Yes, an actual helicopter. RAF Wainfleet sits right on the coast, beside the sea wall, with those fabulous Lincolnshire big skies stretching out in every direction. The helicopter itself was surprisingly cosy and comfortable, with a neat outdoor space and plenty of room inside to relax. It felt both surreal and homely, like stepping into a piece of history that had been cleverly reimagined as a place to rest.
I went over to Lincolnshire because it’s where my family are, and it gave me the chance to combine this unusual stay with some much-needed time with loved ones. We wandered Skegness beach together, which was surprisingly mild for November, and of course indulged in fish and chips followed by seaside doughnuts. I also caught up with a couple of previous colleagues over coffee in Lincoln, taking a mooch around the city to see what’s changed since my last visit. And there was a long-overdue dinner with a very good friend, the kind of evening that fills you up in more ways than one.
Big Skies and New Memories
I made sure to carve out time for myself too, with a beach walk at Chapel Point from the North Sea Observatory. The sunsets there were gorgeous, those wide horizons painted in pinks and oranges, reminding me why Lincolnshire’s skies are so famous. It was the perfect backdrop to reflect on how far I’ve come since starting this Quirky Stays project, and why it was something of a genius idea all those months ago.
The blog and video from this helicopter adventure aren’t quite ready yet, but I intend to have them live before Christmas. When they’re up, they’ll complete the set: seven fun two-night stays that have done me the world of good. In these early days of living without my husband, escaping into the weird and unusual has been a way to breathe, to reset, and to remind myself that joy can still be found in unexpected places.
I hope you’ve found the series interesting to follow. If you haven’t already, I’d dearly love it if you subscribed to my YouTube channel; it’s where all the quirky stay videos live, and where this helicopter one will appear soon. And honestly, I’m already thinking ahead. I reckon there should be a second series in 2026. Do you agree?
Happy Birthday to Me
As I mentioned above, the other significant thing that happened this month was my birthday. It very naturally came with mixed emotions. I chose not to ‘celebrate’ in the traditional sense, I just didn’t feel like it, but I was very well remembered by family and friends, which was super lovely and meant a lot.
Later that week, I went up to Chester to meet my good friend Sarah, and while we were there, I treated myself to some new crockery. Mondego is a Portuguese pottery where you buy pieces by weight, and I picked out a collection of not‑matching plates and bowls. They’re all different designs, but all in earthy tones that still sit together nicely if I want them all on the table at once. Realistically, though, it’s just me for dinner 99% of the time, so I chose pieces I liked rather than worrying about a set. After more than twenty years of gradually chipping and breaking the plain white crockery over the last two decades, it felt like the right moment to refresh with something a bit different.
My other present to myself was a bright yellow wingback chair from Ikea. It now sits in my dining room alongside the table and chairs I bought earlier this summer, giving me somewhere new and comfortable to sit at home. The sofa really needs replacing, it’s the one we bought when we got married 23 years ago and is well past its best (seems to be a theme), but I decided I can’t deal with that bigger decision for now. A cheerful chair felt like a manageable step, something I could choose for myself without too much pressure, and a way to bring a little comfort and colour into my everyday space.
That’s Entertainment
Alongside the outdoor hours and quirky adventures, November gave me plenty of time to enjoy stories; in words, on stage, and on screen. Books, films, and plays have always been part of how I reset, and this month they offered both comfort and distraction. From nature writing to festive theatre, each brought something different: the joy that comes from immersing yourself in someone else’s imagination for a while can’t be beaten. Here are four highlights that stood out this month.
Audiobook: Is a River Alive, Robert Macfarlane
Listening to Robert Macfarlane’s Is a River Alivea (on Audible and at Amazon) felt less like absorbing a textbook on rivers and more like being invited into a memoir of a living thing. The book is as much about the people who care for rivers as it is about the rivers themselves, weaving together stories of guardianship, memory, and the way water shapes human lives. Macfarlane has a gift for making the natural world feel both intimate and immense, and here he treats rivers not as static features of the landscape but as beings with histories, moods, and vulnerabilities.
I’ve read several of his books before, and each time I come away with a sense of having learned something new, while also wishing I understood more deeply the intricacies of the natural world. This audiobook was no different. His language is lyrical yet grounded, and the voices of those who live alongside rivers add texture and authenticity. It reminded me that rivers are not just scenery or even just resources, but threads that bind communities and ecosystems together.
Audiobook: Chasing Fog, Laura Pashby
Laura Pashby’s Chasing Fog: Finding Beauty in a Cloud (on Audible and at Amazon) is my favourite non‑fiction read of the year. I’ve enjoyed Laura’s musings on social media for a while (@circleofpines), so when this book was released, I downloaded it straight away. What unfolded was a beautifully written exploration of fog – part memoir, part science, part folklore – and a meditation on her desire to seek it out, understand it, and live within its mystery.
What made it especially deep for me was the familiarity of the landscapes she describes. Laura lives just down the road from me, and the opening chapters on the Cotswolds and the Severn felt like home. I knew the places she spoke about, could picture the bends in the river and the rolling hills, and that recognition hooked me from the start. When she moved on to Dartmoor, it was like she had written the book for me, echoing the ‘thin places’ I reflected on in my Dartmoor trip this summer.
Pashby’s prose balances observation with detail, making fog feel both elemental and personal. She treats it as more than weather: a phenomenon that shapes memory, mood, and meaning. Listening to her weave together folklore, science, and lived experience reminded me why I love nature writing – it makes the familiar strange, and the strange familiar. If you enjoy thoughtful explorations of landscape and atmosphere, Chasing Fog is a wonderful choice.
Film: Wicked For Good
I treated myself to a seat in the posh cinema for opening weekend of Wicked For Good. It felt like the right kind of indulgence, and I’m glad I did because it was well worth it. I really enjoyed the film.
Now, I’ll admit the soundtrack isn’t quite as strong as the first act, but as someone who knows the musical well, it didn’t disappoint. I’ve seen people online calling it a ‘sequel’ and suggesting it falls short, but I think that misses the point. This isn’t a sequel at all, it’s the second act of a musical production, and it plays exactly like that. The story continues, deepens, and complicates, rather than trying to reinvent itself.
Of course, there were moments that made me smile and moments that made me raise an eyebrow (what was that cardigan?). And no, it doesn’t end in the ‘happily ever after’ way people might assume all musicals do. But that’s part of its strength; it leans into the bittersweet, the unresolved, the idea that not all stories tie up neatly.
For me, it worked. I loved it, and I’d happily go and see it again. Sometimes the best measure of a film is whether you’d spend another couple of hours in its world, and with Wicked For Good, the answer is a yes from me.
Play: A Christmas Carol Goes Wrong, Mischief Theatre
This was the play I mentioned earlier, staged at the Everyman Theatre in Cheltenham on my birthday, carrying that extra weight as it was a treat booked for me by my husband in the ‘before’. My emotions weren’t entirely in check for obvious reasons, but even with that caveat, I thought the production was brilliant.
I’ve reviewed Mischief Theatre shows before, most recently The Comedy About Spies, and I remain a big fan of their work. A Christmas Carol Goes Wrong is well written, well performed, and oh so funny. There was perhaps less slapstick than in The Play That Goes Wrong, but it still delivered plenty of physical comedy and laugh‑out‑loud moments. The cast leaned into the chaos with impeccable timing, and the audience responded with the kind of collective joy that only live theatre can conjure.
It’s touring now and also on in London over Christmas, which feels fitting given the story at its heart. And to answer the earlier unasked question about how many different versions of A Christmas Carol I’ll consume this year… as many as possible. For me, it remains one of the best stories ever written, second only to Alice in Wonderland. I reckon Mischief Theatre’s playful take is a worthy addition to the collection.
See You Next Time…
As I close out this month’s journal, I keep circling back to that idea of the loss of myself. That is, how grief is reshaping me in ways I didn’t choose, and how each small adventure, each hour outside, is part of learning who this new Zoe might be. November’s mix of rainstorms, quirky stays, and festive moments reminded me that even in change, even in trauma, there are moments of light worth noticing.
As Christmas approaches, I’m reminding myself not to get too worked up about it all – or anything at all; the most important thing is simply to be present. I’ll keep honouring my One Hour Outside, keep finding ways to step into the world as it is now, and keep sharing those stories with you. I hope to have my helicopter quirky stay journal up soon, along with a little pre‑Christmas Currently Loving. In the meantime, please do read my One Hour Outside recap and all about my quirky stay of contrasts, which included that fabulously unusual capsule hotel in London.
As December gathers pace, I’d love to invite you to step outside today, even if just for a short walk, a breath of cold air, or a pause beneath the winter sky. Don’t let the rush of everything-Christmas or the looming end of the year steal the season from you. The most important thing is to be present: to notice, to savour, and to let the outdoors remind you that life continues in small, steady moments.
See you next time.
