My monthly journal for June: reflecting on one year of loss, a quirky stay in Norfolk, a brand new musical, and two comforting movies.
Because I’m British, it feels inevitable – contractual, even – that this month’s journal (which is my June recap, a couple of weeks later than normal scheduling, sorry about that) begins with the weather. And June certainly gave me some to talk about. After finishing the Cleveland Way in 31‑degree heat in May, we found ourselves facing a second heatwave, this one heavier and more relentless. A full week of pressing temperatures and humidity that seemed to seep into everything, settling over the days like a thick, unmoving haze.
Gloucestershire, where I live, sat squarely inside both the UKHSA red heat health warning and the Met Office red warning of extreme heat for three days, with amber warnings bookending that. You could feel the strain everywhere – on people, on health services, on transport, on the general mood.
Heat like that has a way of slowing life to a crawl. Mornings were hazy and languid, evenings long yet stifled, and the middle of the day became something to endure rather than enjoy. My routine had to shift, my productivity suffered as the heat pressed down on motivation, and the house held onto the warmth long after sunset. Sleep was patchy at best.
If I’m honest, the heat was just ‘another thing’ my brain and body had to navigate, the backdrop to a month that was already emotionally charged. A month shaped not only by temperature, but by memory, by grief, by the ache of reaching the one‑year mark of everything changing.
One Year of Loss
One year. A whole year since everything changed. A year of living with loss, of being half a person, of learning how to carry something that doesn’t lighten. It feels like both a long stretch of time and no time at all.
The anniversary itself sits toward the end of May, and I marked it – rightly, I think – by hiking the Cleveland Way. I chose that because I needed something active, something familiar, something that would keep me moving and give me a focus.
But as June began, my body forced me to stop. Recovery arrived with a thud, and in that stillness, I could do nothing but reflect. The heaviness didn’t arrive all at once; it gathered slowly, like pressure building in the air before a storm. A weight behind everything I did, and sometimes on top of it. That made me realise how young I still am in this new life of mine. A tired, irritable, untrained child trying to make sense of a world that no longer fits.
Grief Feelings
The feelings of grief don’t have names, but over the last twelve months I’ve tried to describe them through story and analogy as each month has revealed a different facet of this strange terrain. I’ve written about the shape of grief, about being tired in my bones, about being stuck in a labyrinth, about losing myself. And June felt heavy because I experienced all of those things at once.
If you ask how I’m doing, the answer is simple: I’m tired. Exhausted in every possible way. However much I do – or don’t do – the tiredness stays. It’s emotional weather I carry even when life continues around me. And honestly, if emotional exertion counted as cardio, I’d be the fittest I’ve ever been.
Some days are crowded with what‑ifs, others are blank, and most sit somewhere in between. That has been the routine of the year: grief arriving in waves, sometimes loud, sometimes muted, always present. Especially in the last few weeks, as significant dates rolled through, I’ve had no choice but to reflect, to notice the ache, and to acknowledge a difficult truth: grief feels familiar now.
Time Flies
Very little of the emotional processing that comes with suddenly becoming a widow happens in the first twelve months. Instead, it’s a year of legalities, paperwork, logistics, and the slow unwinding of a shared life. The administrative side of loss is rarely spoken about, but it consumes months. It shapes the early stages of grief more than emotion does. Only now, with most of that behind me, does it feel like the real journey is beginning.
Because I’m a writer, I’ve at least been able to unpick some of my relationship with grief using words. Not the generic version people write books about, but the personal one that sits in my chest. My labyrinth analogy has been helpful; this experience feels like walking a winding, repetitive, disorienting path. I’m navigating a structure I didn’t choose, at a pace that makes sense only when I turn around and look back.
Within that labyrinth, I’ve tried to practice proactive grief: doing things, going on adventures, travelling, making plans. Using the doing to create intentional space for reflection rather than waiting for emotion to ambush me. Adventure has grounded me more than I expected – holding old memories and making new ones at the same time.
And in the middle of all that doing, the thought hit me one afternoon as I boiled the kettle yet again: I can’t imagine my husband wanting me to sit still. I could almost hear him telling me to get up and do things. Wallowing was something he loathed. So the doing becomes a way of listening to him still.
But doing is tiring. My bones are tired from grief, my body is tired from activity, and my mind is tired from both. I feel like a zombie more often than I’d like to admit.
I Am a Different Person
Then there’s the part of grief that is about identity, and understanding who I am now the shape of my life has altered so profoundly. Loss didn’t just take someone I loved; it took the version of myself that existed in partnership. The part of me that had been living as a pair for a quarter of a century. This part of grief is learning how to inhabit a life that is mine alone.
The who‑am‑I question hits hard. Some say a widow becomes a completely different person – not new, but changed beyond recognition. And I see that. Yes, there are parts of me I recognise, but not many. Or perhaps it’s that my perception of life has been distorted, like looking through glass that’s been warped by the heatwave.
I’ve had to learn how to make decisions without the familiar echo of another voice. Some choices are surprisingly easy, such as booking a trip, planning a hike, buying new trainers… But others stop me in my tracks: deciding what to cook for dinner, getting a quote to replace the rotten fence posts, or what time to leave to make sure I get somewhere on time (and don’t get me started on car maintenance). Small decisions feel enormous because they highlight the absence of shared life.
Some of this has been gentle, with new routines forming and small preferences emerging. Other parts have been harder, especially when I catch myself reaching for habits that no longer have a place.
On Being Strong
I keep seeing a line on social media: ‘You’re so strong’, with the grieving person responding, ‘I had no choice’. And that rings true. There has been no option but to breathe deeply and get on with life – because the alternative is not something I wish to entertain. Sometimes I can carry my grief without feeling crushed by it. Other times it pins me to the sofa. That’s not resilience or strength, and it’s certainly not inspiring; it’s adaptation.
There’s a cultural expectation that grief is something you work through, as though it’s a tunnel with a clear exit. But my experience has been more like learning a new environment, some days foggy, some bright, some unexpectedly calm. I don’t try to predict them. I let them be what they are. That’s been one of the quiet lessons of this year: grief doesn’t demand solutions, it asks for acknowledgement. I’ve learnt that grief is a full‑time job, but unfortunately it doesn’t come with annual leave.
I return again to the labyrinth. The path loops, doubles back, revisits old thoughts. Sometimes I find unexpected pockets of peace. Other times I’m far from it. The important thing is that I keep moving – not forward, necessarily, but towards understanding, towards acceptance, towards whatever comes next. This part of grief feels most personal, most private, and most connected to identity after loss.
Perspective
Looking at the last year from this side of it, I can see how much of it was spent in survival mode – hidden under forms, decisions, responsibilities, and the sheer practical reality of losing a partner. And the truth is: I’m still in that mode. The paperwork may have eased, but the emotional weight hasn’t. Only in the last few weeks have I had any space to feel what happened, and even that space is small, fragile, and easily overwhelmed.
That’s why this one-year anniversary doesn’t feel like an ending or a milestone of completion. It’s simply a marker in time, one that everyone talks about, but one that doesn’t signify being ‘through’ anything. If anything, it highlights how far into the labyrinth I still am, walking a path with no clear exit, no finish line, no sense of being done.
For family and friends who might read this with worry: none of this is a cry for help. I’m not spiralling, I’m not lost, and I’m not in need of intervention. I’m living with something overwhelming and learning how to carry it with honesty and steadiness. This year has been the most difficult of my forty‑five years, and I’m still in the thick of it. But even within that difficulty, I can see strength, connection, and love. Writing helps. Sharing helps. It’s part of how I keep going.
Heat and Heaviness
June, with all its heat and heaviness, became a month of recognition – not because anything resolved, but because I finally had a moment to notice where I actually am. Still in survival mode. In the labyrinth. Learning how to live inside something that doesn’t end. Buying an air fryer to make cooking for one simpler and cheaper, eating the Norwegian chocolate I brought home from my latest trip (more on that in my July recap), or finally selling the Poäng chairs I never actually liked sitting in – these tiny details don’t mark progress. They simply marked presence. They reminded me that I’m still here, still moving, still surviving, still finding my footing in a life I didn’t choose.
The journey isn’t over, and it won’t ever be in the neat, tidy way people might imagine. There is no finish line, no moment where I’ll declare myself ‘through’ the hard part. But this is my path, and I’m learning how to walk it with honesty. Grief – and being open about it – isn’t a sign of brokenness. It’s a sign of love continuing in a different form, one I’m still learning how to carry.
My June
While all the above was going on in my head, I was also trying to do something with my June. I might live a life utterly shaped by grief, but I cannot be wholly defined by it. Even in a month that carried emotional weight, ordinary days unfolded. Plans were made, changed, enjoyed. There were small domestic victories, moments of connection, and trips sketched out. June held both heaviness and movement, and I lived it as best I could.
I was meant to start the month in Bournemouth with a friend, but we cancelled – a disappointing decision, yet the right one. The heatwave and my tiredness made the idea of travel feel too much for both me and my lovely hosts. The honest version is that we agreed to melt in our respective homes rather than burden each other with our weather‑whining. Instead, I spent a whole weekend with myself: my first taste of an açaí bowl, a wander around a local museum, buying the aforementioned air fryer (a tiny but oddly satisfying upgrade to my kitchen life), a bit of organising, and a lot of sitting very still in my lounge trying not to overheat.
Later in the month I walked with friends in Wendover Woods, shaded paths and easy conversation making things feel lighter. I spent time on Cleeve Hill with different friends, where the wide skies always seem to give my mind more room. I saw family in Norfolk, a gentle anchor in a month that needed one, and used the visit as an excuse for a simple yet beautiful quirky stay. And I went to the Everyman Theatre Cheltenham to see Thespians, and enjoyed two new films – Toy Story 5 at the cinema and Sheep Detectives at home – both comforting in their own ways.
Quirkiness in Norfolk
My trip to Norfolk turned into a particularly quirky weekend, the kind that reminds me why I enjoy my quirky stays series so much. It wasn’t planned as a standalone adventure; like several of my stays, it was timed to coincide with something else. In this case, a family trip to the seaside to celebrate my mum’s birthday. That’s how I ended up booking a quirky stay on the other side of the country, tucked away in Wormegay, in a shepherd’s hut that turned out to be anything but basic.
The Good Shepherd’s Hut was my first quirky stay booked through Airbnb. While a shepherd’s hut doesn’t sound wildly quirky compared to some of the places I’ve stayed, this one had a very important twist: a private sauna. The hut was designed for one and set in an orchard I had entirely to myself. Inside was a small double bed, a neat kitchenette with a microwave, fridge, kettle, tea and milk provided, plus a little table and chairs. There was cold running water in the hut, and a separate wet room with hot water, a loo, a shower, and the sauna itself.
It was a hot weekend, so I made good use of the outside table and chairs, sitting in the orchard with the sun filtering through the trees. The whole place was peaceful in a way that felt restorative rather than isolating. Everything was easy, comfortable, and thoughtfully put together. And in a lovely twist, I found out at checkout that I was their very first gues, which made the stay feel even more special. I’ll save the full story for the eventual blog and video, but as an overview: it was exactly the kind of gentle, slightly eccentric escape I needed before heading off for the family celebrations.
A Quirky Afternoon Tea
The quirkiness continued with my mum’s birthday treat: an afternoon tea my sister and I were left in charge of booking. We chose Berni Beans in Hunstanton, which turned out to be fabulously quirky in the best possible way.
We went for a combination of the Vintage Afternoon Tea and the Gentleman’s Afternoon Tea, all prepared fresh as we arrived. The tiered plates were piled high with sandwiches, pork pies, sausage rolls, and crisps served in teacups. Then came dessert in three acts: warm chocolate cake, an ice cream sundae (yes, really), and finally the traditional scone cream tea. The staff were wonderful, the atmosphere joyful, and it felt like exactly the right way to celebrate.
On the way home, I made use of my new National Trust membership and stopped at Lyveden, the unfinished Elizabethan lodge begun by Sir Thomas Tresham in 1595. The moated garden, the meadow labyrinth, and the strange stillness of a building left deliberately incomplete made it feel serene, eccentric, and quietly beautiful. And yes, it absolutely counts as quirky. After all, it’s a shell of a house not because it fell into ruin, but because the Tresham family simply never finished it – an eternal reminder that some projects really do linger longer than planned.
It’s Show Time
I’ve had a quieter month for entertainment, with just one musical and two films, though I’m actually writing this monthly journal during some downtime on my latest show‑focused trip to London, where I’m seeing five different productions in a single weekend. That theatrical whirlwind will appear in my next recap, but for now, here’s what June had to offer.
Thespians (tour): Everyman Theatre Cheltenham
A month or so on from seeing Thespians at the Everyman Theatre Cheltenham, I’ve had time to sit with my thoughts about Mischief Theatre’s first ever musical. It was fun – genuinely fun – with flashes of the company’s trademark chaos and cleverness, but it didn’t quite reach the level of unhinged spoof I’ve come to expect from them.
In places it felt like a show still finding its feet: the blocking occasionally loose, the sound a little uneven, and the musical moments not quite as full or punchy as I’d hoped (I’m rooting for a bigger band). The format seemed ‘song sandwich’ at times, with dialogue and musical numbers alternating in a slightly predictable pattern.
The story itself is charming. Set in ancient Greece, Thespians follows a group of islanders roped into a prayer competition devised by The Tyrant to avoid being blamed for a drought. It’s a playful, satirical take on the invention of theatre, complete with moral lessons, mischief, and plenty of room for chaos. Even if the humour didn’t land as explosively as I expected, the premise is good.
The cast were the standout. Claire Marie Hall (Poly) and Rhys Taylor (The Tyrant) brought real energy and presence, and the ensemble worked hard to lift the material. A couple of the songs have stayed with me more than I expected. It’s not the next Operation Mincemeat by any stretch, but it’s a new musical in its second week of performances, and it feels like one that will grow, tighten, and settle as the run continues.
Movies for Kids? Toy Story 5 and Sheep Detectives
I’ve always thought that so‑called ‘kids’ films’ carry emotional truths adults often need more than children do. There’s something disarming about stories told simply, with bright colours and gentle humour, that still manage to land real feelings. In a month shaped by reflection and grief, these films became small pockets of comfort, not because they were profound, but because they were kind. They reminded me that softness has value, and that joy doesn’t need to be complicated to be grounding.
I saw Toy Story 5 at the Tivoli in Cheltenham, one of the Everyman Cinema group with its sofas, low lighting, and at‑seat service. I settled in with popcorn and a milkshake, and it felt like exactly the right environment for revisiting characters who have been part of my life for decades. The film itself was sweet, familiar, and gently nostalgic. Not groundbreaking, not trying to reinvent anything, just a warm continuation of a story that has always understood the ache of growing up and moving on. A short, simple verdict: it was well worth my evening.
The Sheep Detectives was a home watch on Amazon Prime; still with popcorn and a milkshake, but this time courtesy of my own cupboards and the Velvetiser. It’s a light, silly, surprisingly charming little film. Nothing earth‑shattering, but it made me smile and laugh, and sometimes that’s enough. A cosy, easy watch that didn’t demand anything from me.
Together, they bookended the month with small moments of comfort, gentle reminders that joy can be found in simple places, even when life feels heavy. And with my London theatre marathon underway as I write this, I suspect July’s entertainment section will be anything but quiet.
See You Next Time…
As I wrap up this month’s journal, I keep circling back to the thread: one year of loss, and the life that continues alongside it. June was heavy in places, gentle in others, and full of small things that remind me I’m still moving – not away from grief, but with it. It feels honest to acknowledge that.
June was also a month of creating. I published my Snow and Saunas in Estonia post, my Two Days in Helsinki journal, and a reflective piece on learning to love the outdoors. A handful of videos from my three‑countries‑in‑a‑week adventure went live too – little windows into my travels. I was also featured in the brand‑new 2026 OS guide to hiking the Coast to Coast. It’s a small thing, but one I’m proud of, and it sits neatly alongside the other stories I’ve shared this month.
July is already proving full of adventure. I’ve just come back from a long weekend in Norway with a friend – a trip that began as a tiny idea on a walk in the woods, and grew into something joyful and grounding. And at the time of writing, I’m in London on a theatre‑focused trip, with five shows lined up across the weekend. In an hour or so I’m heading out to see Sam Ryder in the new production of Jesus Christ Superstar at the London Palladium, so I suspect July’s journal will be packed with mini‑reviews. After this whirlwind, I should probably make sure the rest of the month is a little slower, with space for rest, reflection, and more writing.
For now, I’m closing my June journal with a quiet breath. Acknowledging the year behind me, the path I’m still walking, and the small, bright things that continue to appear along the way. See you next time.