Seven months after my husband died and my world fell apart, I found myself standing in my kitchen at 6:47 AM, staring into space, Knowing that the cursor on my laptop blinked back at me from the dining table, mocking my inability to focus on the client work that was already three days late. This was my new reality, grief brain trying to run a business while small humans depended on me for everything from cereal to emotional stability.
If you're reading this, you probably know this particular kind of exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness that comes from holding it all together when everything inside you feels scattered like puzzle pieces after an earthquake. You're not alone in this impossible juggling act, and honestly, most days I still feel like I'm dropping more balls than I'm catching.
The hardest thing about grief when you're a solo entrepreneur with kids is that there's no pause button. There are no sick days from parenting, no extended bereavement leave when you are the business. The invoices still need to be sent, the school pick-up times don't adjust for your broken heart, and somehow you're supposed to figure out how to function when your executive function has taken a significant hit.
In those first few weeks, I kept waiting for someone to tell me how to do this, how to rebuild a life that made sense when nothing made sense anymore. But grief doesn't come with an instruction manual, and there's no template for "how to parent and run a business when you can barely remember what day it is."
The Morning That Changed Everything
I remember the morning I realised I needed to stop waiting for normal to return and start building something new instead. We needed new rhythms, new structures that could bend without breaking when the grief waves hit unexpectedly.
That afternoon, after I'd finally managed to focus long enough to finish that overdue proposal, I sat down with my kids and asked them a question that changed everything: "What do we need to feel okay right now?" Not perfect, not happy, just okay.
The answers were simpler than I'd expected. My older son wanted to know he'd always have clean clothes for school. My younger son wanted to know there would always be food in the house, even if it wasn't the meals I used to prepare. And honestly, I wanted to know that I could still be a good mum and keep my business afloat, even if both looked different than before.
Starting Small: The Art of Micro-Routines
The mistake I made initially was trying to rebuild everything at once. I'd create elaborate schedules that would last about three days before falling apart spectacularly. Over time, I learnt that grief-friendly routines need to be built like a house, foundation first, then walls, then all the pretty details that make it feel like home.
We started with what I call micro-routines, tiny, non-negotiable anchors that could hold steady even on the worst days. Our first one was stupidly simple: every morning, no matter what chaos had happened the night before, I would make coffee and my kids would eat something that counted as breakfast.
The second micro-routine was equally modest: every business day, I would spend the first thirty minutes responding to urgent emails before the kids woke up. Not planning my entire day, not reviewing my quarterly goals, just clearing the most pressing fires so I wasn't starting from a place of panic.
These tiny routines became lifelines on days when everything else felt impossible. When grief brain made me forget parents' evenings or client deadlines, at least I knew my kids had eaten and my most urgent work wasn't completely neglected.
The Reality of Flexibility
But here's what no one tells you about building routines while grieving: they need to be elastic. Static schedules work great when you're operating at full capacity, but grief doesn't follow anyone's calendar. Some days you'll wake up feeling almost normal, ready to tackle your to-do list with something resembling your old energy. Other days, the simple act of getting your kids dressed and yourself caffeinated will feel like climbing Everest.
I learnt to create what I call "weather patterns" for my routines, different versions for different kinds of days. On sunny days, when grief was quiet and my brain was cooperating, I could handle the full routine: proper breakfast, organised workspace, scheduled client calls, after-school activities. On stormy days, when the wave hit hard, we had storm protocols: cereal for dinner, films instead of homework battles, work emails that simply said "I'll get back to you tomorrow."
The key was recognising which kind of day it was early, before I exhausted myself trying to force a sunny-day routine on a stormy-day reality.
Involving the Kids Without Overwhelming Them
One of my biggest concerns was how much to share with my children about our changed circumstances. They'd lost someone too, they were dealing with their own grief, and now they were watching their mum struggle to keep everything together. I didn't want to burden them with adult worries, but I also couldn't pretend everything was fine when it clearly wasn't.
We found a middle ground that worked for us. I started including them in age-appropriate planning conversations. "Mum's having a hard time remembering everything right now, so we're going to make some lists together." "Some days Mum's work might take longer because my brain is moving slowly, so we need back-up plans for snacks and entertainment."
This wasn't about making them responsible for my emotional state or our household management, it was about making them partners in building something that worked for all of us. They felt useful and included rather than confused and helpless, and I got the support I desperately needed without the guilt of asking too much.
The Business Side: Redefining Success
Running a business while grieving with kids means redefining success in ways that might make your pre-grief self cringe. I had to accept that some months, just keeping the lights on was enough. Some client calls happened with background noise of sibling arguments or cartoons. Some projects took twice as long as they used to because I could only work in scattered fifteen-minute increments between emotional meltdowns, mine or theirs.
I started being honest with my clients about my situation, not in elaborate detail, but enough context for them to understand why my communication patterns had changed. "I'm grieving the loss of my husband right now, so my response times may be slower than usual, but I'm committed to delivering quality work." The response was overwhelmingly compassionate, and many clients shared their own experiences with working through difficult times.
I also had to get comfortable with saying no to opportunities that would have excited my old self but felt impossible in my current reality. That speaking engagement that would have been great for my business but required overnight travel? Not right now. The client project that promised good money but demanded intense availability during after-school hours? Maybe next year.
This wasn't giving up on my ambitions: it was protecting the foundation I was trying to rebuild. Some seasons are for growth, and some seasons are for simply surviving with grace. Both have their place.
The Non-linear Nature of Healing
Two years in, I wish I could tell you that building these routines was a steady progression from chaos to order, from broken to whole. But grief doesn't work that way, and neither does healing. There are days now when I feel almost like my old self: efficient, organised, emotionally steady. Then something small: a song, a photograph, an innocent comment from one of the kids: can knock me sideways for hours or days.
The difference now is that our routines can flex with these fluctuations. We have systems that work when I'm operating at 90% capacity and different systems for when I'm barely managing 30%. The kids know that sometimes Mum needs extra quiet time to process feelings, and they have activities and snacks that don't require my constant supervision. I know that some work days will be incredibly productive and others will consist mainly of moving emails from my inbox to a "deal with this tomorrow" folder.
This flexibility extends to how we define family time and work time too. Sometimes family time looks like all of us in the living room, each doing our own thing but together. Sometimes work time happens at the kitchen table while the kids do homework beside me. The boundaries are softer now, more permeable, and somehow that works better for all of us than the rigid compartments I used to maintain.
What I Wish I'd Known Then
If I could go back to that version of myself standing in the kitchen seven months ago, overwhelmed and exhausted and wondering how she was going to make it through another day, I would tell her this: Start smaller than you think you need to. Be kinder to yourself than feels reasonable. Ask for help earlier and more often than your pride wants to allow.
I would tell her that building a new normal doesn't mean accepting less than she deserves: it means creating something sustainable that honors both her grief and her responsibilities. I would remind her that her kids are more resilient than she fears and that they're learning valuable lessons about flexibility, compassion, and what it means to keep going when life gets hard.
Most importantly, I would tell her that there's no timeline for this process. Some days will feel like progress, others like setbacks, and both are part of the same journey. The goal isn't to get back to who she was before: that person lived in a different world. The goal is to become someone who can thrive in this new reality, carrying both the weight of loss and the possibility of joy.
You're stronger than you think you are, even when you feel weakest. Especially then. The routines you're building now, imperfect and ever-changing as they are, are acts of love: for your children, for your business, for the life you're creating from the pieces of the one that broke.
And that's enough. You're enough. This messy, tender, resilient life you're building( it's enough.)
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