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.)

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.

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.