Once upon a monday

Author: Anne-Marie Swift

  • The Unmade Bed: Redefining Home Management Through Grief

    The Unmade Bed: Redefining Home Management Through Grief

    Losing a spouse leaves behind not just an emotional void but also practical challenges that can quickly become overwhelming, especially when you’re now the sole parent to grieving children. Standing in your kitchen surrounded by dirty dishes, overflowing laundry baskets, and dust that seems to multiply overnight can make you feel like you’re drowning in responsibilities that were once shared. The empty space where your partner used to be feels magnified by the mounting pile of chores that now fall solely on your shoulders while your children look to you for both emotional support and daily stability.

    I want to share some insights from my own journey through grief and how I learned to manage a household with children while healing. There’s no perfect solution, but there are ways to navigate this seemingly impossible terrain.

    Permission to Lower Your Standards

    First and most importantly, It’s okay that your house is a mess right now.

    It’s okay that laundry is piling up, that takeout containers have become kitchen staples, that dust bunnies have formed colonies under your furniture. Your brain and body are doing the essential work of processing grief, which leaves little energy for household management, and you’re also supporting two children through their own grief journeys.

    In those early days, simply surviving is enough. More than enough.

    I started with what I call “grief-adjusted standards.” This meant consciously letting go of how I used to keep house when my husband was alive and establishing new, more compassionate benchmarks:

    • Beds with hospital corners? No. But beds with clean sheets changed regularly? Yes.
    • Gourmet meals? No. But simple, nutritious food in the house? Yes.
    • Perfectly organized closets? No. But clean clothes available when needed? Yes.
    • Immaculate bathrooms? No. But sanitary and functional? Yes.
    • Pinterest-worthy school lunches? No. But healthy food that makes it to school or leaning on the lunches available at school? Yes.
    • Perfection in all areas? Absolutely not. But a home where my children feel secure? Essential.

    Lowering standards isn’t failing; it’s adapting to your new reality as a solo parent.

    Identify Your Trigger Points

    What household chaos most affects your mental state? For me, it was dishes in the sink and backpacks/school items scattered across entries and counters. Those were the things that made me feel overwhelmed when I walked into a room. Other tasks—like dusting or organizing drawers—barely registered emotionally, so they moved to the bottom of my priority list.

    I noticed that my children had their own trigger points too.

    Start with the aspects of household disorder that impact your family most. Addressing these first will give everyone the biggest psychological return on your limited energy.

    Embrace Micro-Productivity

    I discovered the power of micro-productivity, small bursts of activity that cumulatively make a difference:

    • The two-minute rule became my salvation: If a task takes less than two minutes, do it immediately. Hanging up a coat, putting dishes in the dishwasher, sorting mail. These tiny actions prevent the accumulation of larger messes.
    • Five-minute room resets helped maintain some semblance of order. I’d focus on just one room, doing the minimum needed to make it feel more orderly. Gathering dishes, throwing away obvious rubbish, and straightening visible areas. I taught my children to do the same with their spaces.
    • Break larger tasks into components. Laundry isn’t one task. It’s six: gathering clothes, sorting, washing, drying, folding, and putting away. Some days, I only had energy for one step, and that was okay.

    Work With Your Grief Rhythms and School Schedules

    I discovered that certain times of day brought slightly more energy than others. For me, mornings, after the kids left for school, offered a brief window of productivity before the full weight of grief settled back in. I protected those hours for tasks requiring the most focus or physical energy.

    Afternoons became focused on supporting my children when they returned from school.

    Tackling the Kitchen Challenge

    Cooking meals felt impossibly difficult—not just the energy required, but the emotional weight of cooking for three instead of four, with that empty chair at the table. And I’ll confess that takeout became our staple evening meal for a while as I just didn’t have the headspace for thinking about cooking. Not only was it harming our health, but it was also expensive, so to get back on track, I developed several strategies:

    • Batch cooking on days with slightly more emotional bandwidth. I’d make simple meals that could be frozen in individual portions, soups, casseroles, and pasta sauces.
    • Meal templates rather than specific recipes: a protein + a vegetable + a starch. This simple formula meant I could assemble nutritious meals without the mental energy of following complex recipes. I kept a list of simple meal combinations and had a meal plan board on Pinterest to help plan.
    • Pre-cut produce and convenience items became worth the extra cost. During grief, the calculation shifts from financial cost to energy cost.
    • Freezer inventory taped to the door listing available meals prevented the experience of staring blankly into the freezer, unable to make decisions.

    Simplifying Laundry and Cleaning

    For laundry, I implemented several systems:

    • Reduced complexity—everything went into just three categories: darks, lights, and delicates. No separating by fabric type during this period.
    • Permission to use shortcuts like the “fluff cycle” on the dryer to remove wrinkles from clothes that had sat too long rather than rewashing them.
    • Each family member was responsible for their own clean laundry, and the boys were responsible for putting away their items whenever possible.
    • School clothes system where we’d check and set out clothes the night before, avoiding morning rush emergencies about missing socks or shirts.

    For cleaning, I placed wipes in the bathroom and kitchen for quick wipe-downs, even when full cleaning felt impossible. A shower squeegee meant spending ten seconds removing water, which prevented buildup and reduced the frequency of deeper cleanings needed.

    Managing School and Activity Logistics

    The logistical complexity of managing school forms, permission slips, activity schedules and homework became overwhelming as the only parent. I created systems to help:

    • A dedicated homework station with supplies where papers could be signed
    • A calendar showing everyone’s commitments and appointments
    • A folder system for each child’s paperwork
    • Building in buffer time before departures to reduce stress

    I also had frank conversations with teachers about our family situation. Most were incredibly understanding and helped me keep track of details I might miss while struggling with grief brain.

    Dealing With Your Spouse’s Belongings

    The emotional weight of my husband’s belongings presented unique challenges.

    There is no timeline for addressing these items—you move at the pace your family’s hearts allow.

    When we eventually felt ready, I found it helpful to involve the children in decisions about special items they wanted to keep and consider their feelings about changes to shared spaces, making them collaborative decisions when possible. This became extra important as my husband chose to take his life in our then-family home, and we decided as a family that we couldn’t stay there, so we moved not long after.

    Accepting Help with Childcare and Household Tasks

    I learned to accept and ask for help, something that didn’t come naturally. When friends or family would say “Let me know if you need anything,” I began to respond with specific requests:

    • Driving a child to an activity
    • Picking up groceries when making their own shopping trip
    • Having one of the kids for a playdate to give me time to tackle tasks

    I created a simple list of tasks I could share when someone offered assistance: running a load of laundry, mowing the lawn, taking out recycling, or helping the kids with homework while I handled other necessities. Most people genuinely want to help but don’t know how; giving them concrete ways makes it easier for everyone.

    Using Technology and Services

    Technology became an unexpected ally:

    • Shared family calendar apps helped me track everyone’s activities
    • Automatic reminders for essential tasks like permission slips, medication refills, and scheduled maintenance
    • Online grocery delivery saved me from the emotional minefield of shopping in stores with kids in tow
    • Subscription services for household essentials meant we rarely ran out of necessities
    • Meal kit deliveries for weeks when cooking felt impossible, but we needed fresh options

    For tasks I couldn’t handle myself and had no one to help with, I gave myself permission to hire assistance when financially possible. This wasn’t a luxury but a necessity during the most difficult periods—a monthly cleaning service, someone to mow the lawn, or meal delivery services.

    Finding New Rhythms as a Family

    Over time, and we’re talking years, not weeks or months, we have developed new rhythms for our household. Not better or worse than before, just different. Adapted to our new reality as a family of three.

    Some tasks I learned to enjoy as meditative practices, the repetitive motion of folding laundry or the satisfaction of a clean counter became moments of mindfulness in a chaotic emotional landscape. Other tasks we streamlined or eliminated entirely.

    All these years later, our approach bears little resemblance to what it was when my husband was alive. We’ve developed systems that work for us as a family of three rather than four. Some are more efficient; others less so. But they’re ours, created to support the life we’re building now.

    Be Gentle With Yourself and Your Children

    For those in the early, overwhelming days of grief as a parent: You will find your way through this. Not quickly and not in a straight line, but gradually, in fits and starts, with setbacks and small victories.

    In the meantime:

    • Lower standards temporarily
    • Break tasks into the smallest possible components
    • Celebrate tiny achievements
    • Ask for and accept help
    • Rest when you need to rest
    • Remember, your children don’t need perfection; they need your presence

    On difficult days, I would remind myself that my children weren’t keeping score of how often the floors were mopped or whether dinner was homemade. What they would remember was whether they felt safe, loved, and supported during the hardest time of their lives.

    Remember that a functioning household doesn’t look the same for everyone, and yours may look different in grief than it did before. That’s not failure; it’s adaptation.

    Your worth as a parent is not measured by the state of your home or whether you’re maintaining all the standards that existed before. During this period, showing up emotionally for your children and yourself is achievement enough. The rest will come in its own time as you gradually build a new family life around the empty space that remains.

  • Bills Don’t Wait for Grief: My Path Through Financial Recovery After Loss

    Bills Don’t Wait for Grief: My Path Through Financial Recovery After Loss

    The Overwhelming Reality of Financial Responsibility After Loss

    That moment when you stare at the pile of unopened bills on the kitchen counter and realise they’re all now your responsibility alone. The insurance documents need your attention. The bank accounts require changes. The passwords you don’t know. The financial decisions you never had to make before.

    It’s overwhelming. All of it.

    When my husband died by suicide in May 2018, I wasn’t just devastated emotionally; I was completely unprepared for the financial tsunami that followed. The practical aspects of death are rarely discussed, yet they arrive demanding immediate attention while you’re still struggling to breathe through the grief.

    Money matters don’t wait for you to heal. They land on your doorstep with urgency stamps and deadline notifications, completely indifferent to the fact that your world has just imploded.

    Finding a Path Forward Through Financial Chaos

    How do you navigate this impossible terrain? How do you make sound financial decisions when you can barely decide what to have for dinner?

    There is no perfect roadmap, but there are paths forward I’ve discovered through my journey that might help light the way through yours.

    First, let me acknowledge something important: It’s okay that you feel overwhelmed by this right now.

    Financial management after a sudden loss isn’t just about numbers and accounts; it’s emotionally charged in ways that financial advisors rarely discuss. Each statement, account, and decision carries the weight of your shared past and your solo future.

    In those early weeks after my husband died, I could barely open the mail. Everything felt like another reminder of his absence, another confirmation that I was now facing this alone.

    But bills don’t stop arriving because you’re grieving. Banks don’t pause payments out of respect for your loss. The financial world continues turning, demanding participation even when you’re most vulnerable.

    Financial Triage: Where to Begin When Everything Feels Impossible

    I started with “financial triage”, identifying what had to be handled immediately versus what could wait. This meant creating three simple categories:

    • Urgent (must be handled within days): Notifying banks of the death, accessing cash for immediate expenses, and understanding immediate bill payments.
    • Important (must be handled within weeks): Insurance claims, death certificates, account name changes, understanding your current financial position
    • Eventually (can wait a few months): Long-term financial planning, investment changes, major financial decisions

    This simple categorisation prevented me from becoming paralysed by the enormity of it all. I could focus solely on the urgent matters first, temporarily setting aside the longer-term questions that felt impossible to answer in those early days.

    Creating Systems When Your Brain Can’t be Trusted

    For the urgent category, I created a simple system—a dedicated notebook where I listed every account that needed attention, with columns for account numbers and phone numbers and spaces to check off when I’d made contact. Having this external system meant my grief-fogged brain didn’t have to keep track of these details.

    I quickly discovered that financial institutions have established procedures for handling accounts after a death, but they don’t make these procedures clear or accessible. I learned to ask specific questions: “What documentation do you need from me?” “What is your exact process for handling this situation?” “Is there a specific department or person I should be working with?” “Can you please email me those instructions so I have them in writing?”

    Having things in writing became essential. My ability to remember conversations was severely compromised by grief, and having documented instructions provided a reference I could return to when my mind inevitably went blank.

    Managing the Emotional Toll of Financial Administration

    The emotional weight of these calls was extraordinarily heavy. Each one required explaining my husband’s suicide over and over again. Some days, I could make one call before collapsing into tears. Other days, I couldn’t make any.

    I learned to schedule these calls for my stronger moments, usually mornings when the fog of grief hadn’t fully descended. I prepared what I would say beforehand, sometimes writing out a script to follow. And I permitted myself to say, “I need to stop now. I’ll call back another time” if the emotions became too overwhelming.

    Creating a Financial Snapshot Through the Fog

    While working through the urgent matters, I also needed to understand our financial situation quickly. I gathered every financial document I could find and created a simple financial snapshot:

    • What income is still coming in?
    • What expenses must be paid?
    • What insurance policies exist?
    • What debts are outstanding?
    • What assets do we have?

    This wasn’t a detailed financial plan, just a basic understanding of where things stood. That simple clarity reduced my anxiety significantly. Even if the picture wasn’t pretty, knowing was better than wondering.

    Tackling the “Important” Category: Insurance and Account Changes

    I gave myself a longer timeline for the “important” category on my list. These were tasks that needed attention within weeks rather than days, allowing me to tackle them when I had slightly more emotional bandwidth.

    The process of changing accounts from joint to individual felt like another layer of loss—each change was another acknowledgement that he was gone. Bank accounts, utility bills, the landlord, and car titles each required different documentation and processes.

    I created a dedicated email folder for these financial matters, organising all correspondence by institution. This became invaluable as the weeks turned into months, and I needed to reference previous conversations.

    Compensating for Grief Brain in Financial Management

    Through all of this, I had to fight against the fog that grief creates. Simple tasks took enormous concentration. Numbers that would once have made perfect sense now looked like hieroglyphics. I found myself reading the same paragraph of financial information repeatedly, unable to absorb its meaning.

    I developed strategies to compensate for this cognitive impact. I wouldn’t make calls when exhausted. I’d ask institutions to email me information rather than trying to absorb it over the phone. I’d have someone else review important documents before signing. I set multiple reminders for important deadlines.

    Building a Financial Future After Devastating Loss

    As the most urgent matters were gradually resolved, I entered the third phase: figuring out my financial future. This is where the long-term impact of suicide loss collides with practical financial planning.

    The reality is that suicide often brings financial complications that other types of death may not. In my case, there were medical expenses from previous attempts, therapy costs, and periods of lost income that had already impacted our financial situation before his death.

    I needed to understand where I stood now and how to create financial stability moving forward. This wasn’t just about money but building security in a world that suddenly felt profoundly insecure.

    Creating Financial Stability Amid Insecurity

    I created a simple financial framework that prioritised stability and simplicity over complicated strategies. I needed financial clarity, not complexity.

    For me, this meant:

    • Building an emergency fund larger than conventional wisdom suggests because the loss of my husband deeply shook my sense of security.
    • Setting up automatic payments for regular bills so they wouldn’t be missed in moments of grief fog
    • Creating a spending plan that acknowledged the reality of “grief spending” (those times when emotional exhaustion led to takeout meals or convenience purchases) while keeping overall finances on track
    • Making sure the boys’ future needs were secured

    I also had to confront some difficult financial realities. Our income was now significantly reduced, and certain future plans were no longer financially viable. Adjustments were necessary, often painful ones.

    The timeline for these adjustments became important; I couldn’t change everything at once, emotionally or practically. So, I planned a gradual transition, immediately making the most critical changes while scheduling others for the future when I might have more emotional capacity.

    Giving Yourself Grace in Financial Decision-Making

    Throughout this process, I had to regularly remind myself that financial decisions made during acute grief are rarely optimal. I permitted myself to make “good enough” choices rather than perfect ones. The goal wasn’t financial perfection but financial functionality, creating systems that would work even when I wasn’t at my best.

    I also had to learn to recognise financial grief triggers, those moments when money matters suddenly became overwhelming emotional landmines. For me, it was accessing accounts with his name still on them or dealing with subscriptions that sent mail addressed to him.

    When these triggers appeared, I developed strategies to manage them:

    • Scheduling financially triggering tasks for my stronger days
    • Creating rituals before or after handling these matters to acknowledge their emotional weight
    • Permitting myself to step away when it became too much

    The Ongoing Journey of Financial Recovery

    Seven years later, my financial life bears little resemblance to what it was before. I’ve developed systems that work for me as an individual rather than as part of a partnership. Some are more efficient; others less so. But they’re mine, created to support the life I’m building now.

    I’ve learned that financial recovery after suicide loss isn’t linear. There are setbacks along with progress: days when I feel capable, followed by days when I’m overwhelmed by a simple bill.

    And that’s okay.

    Financial healing, like emotional healing, happens gradually. The goal isn’t to “get over it” but to learn to function despite it, to build financial systems resilient enough to withstand the ongoing waves of grief.

    Hope for Those in the Early Days of Loss

    For those in the early, overwhelming days after loss, please know that you will find your way through this. Not quickly and not in a straight line, but gradually, in fits and starts, with setbacks and small victories.

    In the meantime:

    • Focus only on what truly needs immediate attention
    • Accept help from those who offer it; financial matters are a practical way others can support you
    • Be compassionate with yourself when financial tasks feel impossible
    • Create external systems to compensate for grief brain
    • Understand that your financial capacity will fluctuate with your grief
    • Recognise that financial decisions are also emotional decisions during this time

    Financial recovery after loss isn’t just about balancing numbers; it’s about rebuilding a sense of security in a world that suddenly feels dangerously unpredictable. It’s about finding solid ground when everything has been shaken.

    Remember that many before you have walked this painful path and found their way to financial stability again. Different than what they had planned, but stable nonetheless.

    Know that you are stronger than you think, that it is possible, and that you can and will come through the other side of this dark time. The path forward exists, even when you can’t yet see it clearly.

  • How do I focus on work when my grief is all consuming?

    How do I focus on work when my grief is all consuming?

    That moment when you’re staring at your computer screen, trying desperately to focus on the task in front of you, but all you can see is their face, their smile, their absence, it’s a moment I’ve experienced more times than I can count since May 2018.

    The collision between grief and the necessity of work is brutal and unforgiving. And yet, somehow, we’re expected to navigate it.

    I remember sitting at my desk just a few short weeks after my husband took his life, attempting to respond to emails and client enquiries that suddenly seemed so trivial, so disconnected from the shattered reality I was living in. The cursor blinked back at me, mocking my inability to form even simple sentences.

    But bills needed paying. The boys needed stability. Life, despite its new hollowness, demanded continuation.

    So how do we do it? How do we focus on meetings and deadlines when our hearts have been shattered into a million pieces and our world’s turned upside down? There’s no perfect answer, but there are paths forward I’ve discovered through my own journey with grief.

    First, let me acknowledge something important: It’s okay that you can’t focus right now.

    Your brain is doing exactly what it’s designed to do while processing the experience of a profound loss. The fog, the forgetfulness, the inability to concentrate aren’t signs of weakness or failure; they’re normal, natural responses to grief.

    The brain physically changes when we’re grieving. Executive function, our ability to plan, focus, and complete tasks takes a significant hit. What used to be simple becomes monumentally difficult. That task that would have taken you two hours might now take eight, if you can complete it at all.

    Understanding this was my first step toward compassion for myself. I wasn’t failing at work, I was responding normally to an abnormal situation.

    But understanding doesn’t pay the bills, so I had to find ways to function, even while drowning in grief.

    I discovered that micro-focus was more manageable than sustained attention. I couldn’t handle an eight-hour workday, but I could handle twenty minutes of focused work then a break and then another twenty minutes.

    Whle searching the internet for help focusing, I came across the Pomodoro Technique where you work for short intervals separated by brief breaks. It became my lifeline. I set a timer for 15 minutes (even the standard 25 felt impossible at first) and gave myself permission to do only that much. Sometimes those 15 minutes were productive; other times they were filled with tears. Either was acceptable.

    I started each day by writing down the absolute minimum I needed to accomplish—not what I would have done before, but what was truly essential now. Often, it was just one or two tasks. Completing even those small tasks were huge victories and they became foundational to rebuilding my sense of capability.

    I learned to be radically honest about my capacity. Before my husband died, I prided myself on being the person who could handle anything, who never said no to a project or request. That person disappeared the moment I found him that morning.

    In her place emerged someone who had to say, plainly and without apology, “I cannot do that right now.” It was terrifying at first. Would I lose clients? Would people think less of me? Would I lose the business I’d worked so hard to build?

    But the alternative of pretending I was operating at full capacity when I was barely functioning was unrealistic and unsustainable and would have led to complete burnout in a very short space of time.

    I found that most people, when given honest information without emotional dumping, responded with more compassion than I expected. Admittedly, that can’t be said of everyone; some relationships, professional and personal, didn’t survive this period. But enough did. The right ones did.

    “I’m going through a difficult personal situation and need to scale back for the next few months” became a script I rehearsed and delivered when necessary. I didn’t owe everyone the details, just the parameters of what I could and couldn’t manage.

    I discovered that certain types of work became more difficult than others. Creative tasks, which was the backbone of my business were nearly impossible in the early months. My brain simply couldn’t generate new ideas when it was consumed with processing loss.

    So I focused on the work that I could do. Ones that I could complete almost on autopilot. Administrative tasks, and projects that just required a basic tidy up, format and aligning to brand identities, surprisingly became almost comforting. The structure, the clear start and finish, the lack of required deep creativity all became tasks where I could function on autopilot. Tasks I’d previously found tedious became gentle ways to feel productive without demanding emotional resources I didn’t have.

    I rearranged my workload accordingly, trading creative tasks with colleagues where possible, focusing on administrative work during my lowest periods, saving my strongest moments for client interactions or more demanding projects.

    Time management took on new meaning. I recognised that grief comes in waves, and learned to work with them rather than against them. Mornings, I discovered, were (and still are all these years on) my cognitive best, the window after waking before the full weight of reality settled back in. I protected those hours fiercely for my most demanding work.

    Afternoons often brought emotional fatigue, so I scheduled simpler tasks, meetings that energised rather than drained me, or sometimes simply acknowledged that I needed to stop and rest.

    I came to understand that fighting against the grief only made it more powerful. When I resisted it, tensed against it, it grew overwhelming. When I acknowledged it, gave it space, it remained painful but became something I could move alongside rather than be consumed by.

    Over time, and we’re talking years, not weeks or months, focus returned. Not all at once, not completely, but in increments. Six months after his death, I could work for an hour without breaking down. A year later, a full morning. Two years later, most days were productive, though grief still arrived without warning, still took me out of commission completely sometimes.

    Now, nearly seven years later, I can function at work in ways that once seemed impossible. The grief hasn’t disappeared, it never will, but it has transformed from something that consumed me entirely to something that lives alongside me, rising and falling, but no longer dictating my ability to engage with work and life. There’s a quote I cam across a couple of years after his death from Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy – “It has been said that, ‘time healS all wounds.’ I do not agree. the wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting it’s sanity, coverst them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” It is the most accurate description I have read and still resonates deeply even after all this time.

    For anyone in those early, impossible days where work and grief seem utterly incompatible, know this: What you’re experiencing is normal. Your brain is doing the important work of processing loss, and that naturally affects your ability to do other work.

    Be gentle with yourself. Lower expectations temporarily. Ask for help and accommodations where possible. Break tasks into the smallest possible components. Celebrate tiny victories. Rest when you need to rest.

    Know that you are stronger than you think, that it is possible, and that you can and will come through the other side of this horribly dark time. Not unchanged, never that, but you will come back with the ability to function, to work, to create, to contribute again, even while carrying your grief.

    Focus will return, not all at once, but in moments that gradually extend into hours, then days. Your capacity will rebuild. It will be different, perhaps as grief changes us permanently, but it will rebuild. You will rebuild.

    Until then, be patient with the process. It’s not just okay to struggle with focus during grief, it’s entirely human.

  • How Do I Tell the Kids? Navigating the Impossible Conversation After Suicide

    How Do I Tell the Kids? Navigating the Impossible Conversation After Suicide

    How do I tell the children that yesterday was the last time they saw their Dad?

    This was a conversation I had to have on Monday, 7th May 2018, and it was, without doubt, the hardest conversation of my entire life, and I’ve had a few difficult conversations.

    Being faced with telling the boys that their Dad had decided to take his own life and we wouldn’t see him again was horrific. The words felt impossible to form, the responsibility crushing. Yet somehow, I had to find the strength to tell them.

    The Devastating Day

    I remember that morning with painful clarity. The shock; finding him, running to my neighbour for help, the call to the police, calling his parents, the number of police officers and medical teams, the sudden silence when they all finally left. My mind was barely functioning, toggling between numbness and overwhelming pain; yet through it all, I knew my children needed me more than ever.

    I wanted to keep them safe from the truth, to shield them from that life-changing knowledge, but I’ve always believed that being honest with them (at age-appropriate levels) is the right thing to do. This time, despite wanting to do otherwise, it was no different. Every fiber of my being wanted to protect them, to shield them from the brutal reality. But I knew that honesty, however painful, was the foundation they would need to begin processing their grief.

    It was made exponentially more difficult as I was also dealing with the shock of finding him and the aftermath that followed. The images were still fresh, the trauma still raw. How could I possibly support them through their grief when my own was threatening to consume me?

    But they deserved answers as to why their day wasn’t turning out to be the day they were expecting to have. They had woken up to confusion, to whispered conversations, to the absence of their father, suddenly being taken to the neigbours house to spend the day, instead of heading to the school fayre like they were expecting. They deserved to know why.

    Finding the Words

    So after everyone had left, I took a breath, took them to one side and had the most devastating conversation. I chose a quiet space, away from distractions. I sat them down where I could hold their hands, where I could pull them into my arms when the words hit.

    Through a vision filled with tears and a voice cracking with emotion, I reminded them that they were loved very much, and what I was about to tell them would be really hard to hear, but the mental illness that Dad had been living with for so long had finally won, and he felt that he couldn’t carry on anymore and had taken his own life and we wouldn’t see him again.

    The confusion followed by the hurt and devastation was the hardest thing to watch, especially when all of your instincts are screaming at you to protect them and shield them from hurt. My youngest looked confused, as if he couldn’t comprehend the words. My eldest understood immediately, his face crumpling with a pain no child should ever have to feel. They cried. I cried. We held each other in that first terrible moment of our new reality.

    The Days That Followed

    While that initial conversation was all we could cope with right then, I gradually filled in more detail one-on-one as they asked questions, and they both processed what happened at their own pace. There is an almost three-year age gap between them, and their understanding of the world and life, while similar, was also very different at ages 10 and 13.

    The days after that conversation blurred together. We moved through the motions of life; arranging the funeral, notifying schools, accepting casseroles and bunches of flowers from friends and neighbours who didn’t know what else to do. Through it all, my children’s questions continued, sometimes in torrents, sometimes in trickles.

    “Was Dad sad because of me?” “Could we have stopped him?” “Did he not love us enough to stay?” “Where is he now?”

    Each question felt like reopening a wound, but I answered as honestly as I could, always reassuring them that their father loved them deeply, that mental illness distorts thinking, and that his decision came from a place of pain, not a lack of love.

    Different Children, Different Needs

    Over the next few weeks/months/years, they both had questions, and we dealt with them in age-appropriate ways. If they were both together, then the detail was kept to a level suitable for my youngest, and I’d follow up with my eldest at a later stage when we were alone. My eldest wanted to know more details than my youngest, and with my youngest, it took him until about five years afterwards to ask for the details of how Dad actually died.

    My eldest needed facts. He wanted to understand the mechanics of depression, to know the timeline of events, to process logically what his heart couldn’t comprehend.

    My youngest processed his grief differently. His questions came randomly, often when we were doing something completely unrelated, as if the moment felt safe enough to venture into that painful territory.

    The Persistent Confusion of Young Grief

    For quite a long time, my youngest would ask what time Daddy would be home. I think it was made especially difficult as their Dad was a lighting designer for live events and would often work away from home. So, in those first few weeks, it was as if he was just away for work and not away for good.

    “Daddy’s coming home on Friday, right?” he would ask, and my heart would break all over again as I’d gently remind him that Daddy wasn’t coming back. Sometimes he’d nod and continue playing, sometimes he’d cry as if hearing it for the first time.

    Expecting His Return

    And honestly, even though I was the one that found him that day, I also felt that he would just walk through the door. Even after the funeral and knowing he was gone, there would be days when I’d hear a car door and would expect him to be coming through our front door. Then, the realisation would hit, and the grief wave would be overwhelming.

    That was me as an adult with more experience and comprehension of how horrible the world can be. Being a child thrown into the dark part of life that way must have been even harder to cope with. It was the first experience of death either one of them had had. And for it to be their Dad was devastatingly life-changing.

    Finding Support

    We couldn’t navigate this alone. Grief counseling became part of my routine. we talked about the help that was out there and support groups for children who had lost parents to suicide. Showing them they weren’t alone, that their complicated feelings were normal, made a huge difference

    At school, I made sure their teachers were aware of our situation. Some days, concentrating was impossible for them. Having supportive adults in all areas of their lives created a safety net that held us when I alone couldn’t.

    The Gradual Healing

    Healing didn’t come in a straight line. There were good days followed by terrible ones, progress followed by setbacks. Holidays and anniversaries were particularly difficult, reopening wounds we thought were beginning to heal. But slowly, gradually, we found a new normal.

    Seven years later, there are still moments of grief. My youngest finally asked for the details of how his Dad died, and I answered truthfully, preparing myself for the fallout of that knowledge. But he surprised me with his resilience, processing the information and integrating it into his understanding in a way that seemed to bring him a measure of peace.

    What I’ve Learned

    If you find yourself facing this impossible conversation, here’s what I’ve learned that might help:

    1. Be honest but age-appropriate. Children need truth, but presented in ways they can process.
    2. Answer questions as they come. Don’t force information they’re not ready for, but be prepared to answer when they ask.
    3. Reassure them constantly. They need to know they were loved, that it wasn’t their fault, that they couldn’t have prevented it.
    4. Allow all emotions. Anger, confusion, denial—all are normal responses that need space for expression.
    5. Seek professional help. This is too big to handle alone. Find therapists experienced in childhood grief and suicide loss.
    6. Take care of yourself. Your children need you stable and present, which means addressing your own grief too.
    7. Keep their father’s memory alive. Help them remember the person, not just the way he died.
    8. Be patient with regression. Children may temporarily return to earlier behaviors—bedwetting, clinginess, tantrums. This is normal.
    9. Prepare for grief to resurface. Developmental milestones often trigger new waves of grief as children understand their loss differently.
    10. Find community. Connect with others who understand this specific type of loss.

    It Will Get Better

    It will be one of the hardest things you have to face as a parent.

    You know your children, and you know how best to talk to them.

    They’ll come to you with different questions and thoughts, which quite often can come out of the blue. It’s so hard, and you might not want to answer at the time, but it’s important for them to understand, so be compassionate and answer as best you can. Come back to the question later if you need to, but always be honest and truthful and answer at an age-appropriate level. It’s crucial in the healing for all of you.

    Know that you are stronger than you think, that it is possible, and that you can and will come through the other side of this horribly dark time. There will be days when you won’t believe this—when the grief feels as fresh as it did that first day. But I promise you, those days become less frequent.

    Our family will never be the same. The absence of their father has shaped my children in profound ways. But they are also shaped by his presence in their lives, by the love he gave them, by the parts of himself that live on in them.

    They are resilient, compassionate, and deeply empathetic young men now. They understand the fragility of life and the importance of mental health in ways I wish they never had to learn. But they are moving forward, carrying their father with them but not being defined by his death.

    And if you’re reading this in the raw aftermath of your own loss, know that one day, you will be able to breathe again too. One breath, one day, one moment at a time. You will find your way through.