The morning my life changed forever, everything I thought I knew about juggling motherhood and entrepreneurship became irrelevant. The grief that followed wasn't just mine to carry, it belonged to my children too, and somehow, impossibly, the business still needed to run.

If you're reading this as a solo entrepreneur who's also a parent, navigating the impossible intersection of grief, childcare, and keeping your business afloat, I want you to know something: you are not alone in this. And you are stronger than you think, even when, especially when, you feel like you're drowning.

The thing about grief when you're a solo parent and business owner is that it doesn't wait for convenient moments. It hits you during client calls, in the middle of helping with homework, or at 3 am when you're finally trying to catch up on work. There's no pause button, no neat schedule where you can compartmentalise the pain. And yet, somehow, we have to keep going.

Over the past seven years since my world cracked open, I've learned some hard-won truths about surviving this particular kind of storm. These aren't pretty, polished strategies from business school, they're messy, imperfect lifelines that I wish someone had handed me in those first devastating weeks.

1. Accept That Your Capacity Has Been Cut in Half (And That's Okay)

I spent the first month after the loss of my husband trying to maintain the same pace, the same standards, the same everything. I was convinced that if I could just push through, if I could prove that grief wouldn't defeat me, somehow that would make me stronger. What it actually did was make me sick.

The hardest thing to accept was that my brain simply wasn't functioning at full capacity. Executive function takes a significant hit when you're grieving, and when you add the emotional and logistical demands of supporting children through their own grief, it becomes nearly impossible to think clearly about business decisions. I found myself staring at my computer screen for hours, the cursor blinking back at me, mocking my inability to form coherent thoughts.

Your capacity isn't just reduced, it's fundamentally changed. The energy you once had for creative problem-solving, strategic thinking, and client management is now being channelled into simply surviving each day and helping your children do the same. This isn't weakness; it's biology. Your nervous system is in protection mode, and that's exactly where it should be.

I learned to cut my to-do lists in half, then cut them in half again. Those projects I'd been excited about? They could wait. That marketing strategy I'd been developing? Not urgent. The only things that mattered were keeping existing clients happy, maintaining cash flow, and making sure my children felt safe and supported. Everything else became optional.

Honestly, accepting this reduced capacity felt like admitting defeat at first. But over time, I realised it was actually the most strategic decision I could make. By acknowledging my limitations instead of fighting them, I could focus my limited energy on what truly mattered rather than spreading myself so thin that everything suffered.

2. Build Your Village Before You Need It (And Use It When You Do)

The myth of the solo entrepreneur is exactly that, a myth. None of us do this alone, and when grief strikes, that support network becomes your lifeline. But here's what I wish I'd known: you can't build your village in the middle of the crisis.

I spent years thinking I had to prove my independence, that asking for help was somehow admitting I couldn't handle my responsibilities. Then life happened, and I realised that my stubbornness wasn't protecting anyone, it was actually putting my family and business at risk.

Your village might look different from mine, but it needs to include people who understand both sides of your life. Other parent-entrepreneurs who get why you're answering emails at the school pick-up. Business mentors who've been through their own losses. Family members who can step in with childcare when you're having a rough day. Friends who will sit with you in the mess without trying to fix it.

The key is being vulnerable enough to let people know what's really going on. I learned to send emails that said things like, "I'm struggling with a personal loss right now and my response times might be slower than usual." Almost without exception, the responses were filled with understanding, shared experiences, and offers of help.

And here's the thing about using your village: it's not just about receiving help. Letting others support you gives them the gift of feeling useful during a time when many people feel helpless in the face of someone else's grief. It's actually a kindness to let them help.

3. Create Sacred Boundaries (Even When Everything Feels Urgent)

Before grief, I thought boundaries were about protecting my time. After grief, I learned they're about protecting my sanity and my children's emotional wellbeing. When you're grieving and parenting and running a business, everything feels urgent, everything feels like it can't wait. But the truth is, very little actually can't wait.

I had to learn to turn off my phone after 7 pm. Not just put it on silent, actually turn it off. Because grief makes you hypervigilant, and every notification felt like a potential crisis that needed my immediate attention. But my children needed to see that they mattered more than my inbox, especially when their world had already been shaken.

The boundaries weren't just about work bleeding into family time. They were also about protecting the space I needed to process my own emotions. I learned to block out time each week, sometimes just thirty minutes, where I could sit with my feelings without having to be "on" for anyone else.

Sometimes this meant saying no to opportunities that would have been perfect in different circumstances. I turned down speaking engagements, delayed product launches, and passed on collaborations that I would have jumped at before. Each no felt like I was letting people down, but each yes would have meant letting my family down instead.

The hardest boundary to maintain was with my own expectations. I had to give myself permission to have bad days, to cry during client calls, to occasionally send emails that were shorter and more direct than my usual warm, conversational tone. I had to accept that "good enough" was actually more than good enough when you're doing your best in impossible circumstances.

4. Let Your Children See Your Humanity (Within Reason)

As parents, we often feel like we need to shield our children from our own pain, to be the strong ones who have it all together. But grief strips away pretence, and honestly, trying to maintain a perfect facade while your heart is breaking is exhausting and ultimately unhelpful.

I made the mistake initially of trying to hide my tears, to compartmentalise my grief so completely that my children wouldn't be affected by it. What I didn't realise is that children are incredibly perceptive, and they could sense that something was terribly wrong even when I thought I was hiding it perfectly.

The breakthrough came when my ten-year-old asked me why I kept pretending I wasn't sad. That conversation changed everything. I learned to let them see that adults have big feelings too, that it's okay to be sad, and that feeling sad doesn't mean we're broken or that they need to fix us.

This doesn't mean trauma-dumping on your children or expecting them to be your emotional support. It means being honest when they ask why you're crying, letting them know that some days are harder than others, and showing them that people can be sad and still be capable, still be loving, still be present.

When I had to take a business call while tears were still drying on my cheeks, I learned to say to my children, "Mummy needs to switch into work mode now, but I'm still feeling sad, and that's okay." They learned that adults can hold multiple emotions at once, that professional competence and personal pain can coexist.

Your children watching you navigate grief while still showing up for your responsibilities teaches them resilience in a way that no amount of lectures about "being strong" ever could. They learn that life includes difficult seasons, that it's possible to be sad and still function, and that asking for help is part of being human.

5. Honour the Non-Linear Nature of Grief and Business

Here's what nobody tells you about grief when you're running a business: it doesn't follow quarterly review cycles. It doesn't respect deadlines. It shows up on your most important client days and disappears when you finally have space to process it. The grief wave hits when it hits, and fighting it only makes everything harder.

Seven years later, I still have days when grief ambushes me. It might be triggered by a song, a smell, an anniversary, or absolutely nothing at all. The difference now is that I've learned to work with it rather than against it.

I keep a "grief day" protocol in my business toolkit. It includes template emails for rescheduling calls, a list of low-energy tasks I can do when I can't concentrate, and contact information for the people in my village who can help with childcare if needed. Having this plan in place means I don't have to make decisions when my brain is foggy with pain.

Some days, my best work happens in the midst of grief. There's a raw honesty that comes from pain, a clarity about what really matters, a tenderness in my interactions with clients who are struggling. Other days, grief makes me scattered and ineffective, and I've learned to recognise those days and adjust accordingly.

The same is true for my children. Their grief doesn't follow school schedules or bedtime routines. Some days they need extra cuddles and shorter work hours. Other days they're resilient and adaptable, able to entertain themselves while I tackle important projects.

I've learned to build flexibility into everything: client contracts that acknowledge life happens, childcare arrangements that can expand or contract as needed, financial buffers that allow for reduced productivity during difficult periods. This isn't pessimism; it's realistic planning for a life that includes both joy and sorrow.

The beautiful thing I've discovered is that businesses built to accommodate grief are actually stronger, more sustainable, and more compassionate than those built on the myth that we can maintain consistent productivity regardless of what life throws at us. Clients respect honesty about human limitations. Children learn that work can be meaningful without being all-consuming. And we learn that our worth isn't tied to our output, even when: especially when: our output varies with our ability to cope.

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If you're in the thick of it right now, if you're trying to balance grief and parenthood and business responsibilities, know that it gets different rather than easier. The acute pain softens into something more manageable, like scar tissue forming over a wound. The logistical chaos eventually settles into new routines. Your capacity slowly rebuilds, though it may never look quite the same as it did before.

You are not failing when you need to take longer lunch breaks to attend grief counselling. You are not inadequate when your children need extra attention and your business goals have to shift. You are not weak when you ask for help, when you cry during Zoom calls, when you need to turn down opportunities because your plate is already too full.

You are human, dealing with an impossible situation with courage and love. And honestly, that's more than enough.