The first work day after my husband died, I sat at my laptop at 5:47 AM, the cursor blinking back at me, mocking my inability to form coherent thoughts. My two boys were still sleeping, and the house felt impossibly quiet: the kind of quiet that makes you realise how much noise one person can make just by existing. I had three client deadlines that week, a rent payment due, and absolutely no idea how I was going to manage any of it.
If you're reading this, you might be sitting in that same impossible space right now. The space where grief meets business ownership meets solo parenting, and everything feels like it's on fire at once. I want you to know that what you're feeling: that overwhelming sense that you can't possibly keep all these plates spinning: is completely normal. Your brain is literally working differently right now, and trying to maintain your pre-loss productivity will only compound the pain you're already carrying.
The Reality Nobody Talks About
Honestly, the hardest thing about those first few months wasn't just the grief itself. It was the crushing weight of realising that life expected me to keep performing at full capacity while my executive function had basically shut down. Grief doesn't pause for client calls or school pick-ups or quarterly reports. It just sits there, heavy and demanding, while invoices pile up and your business slowly starts to feel like another thing you're failing at.
I remember one particular Tuesday: maybe six weeks after: when I spent forty-five minutes staring at an email I needed to send to a client about a project delay. Forty-five minutes. The words wouldn't come together properly, and I kept forgetting what I was trying to say halfway through sentences. This is what they don't tell you about grief brain: it steals your language first, then your concentration, then your confidence that you can handle anything at all.
But here's what I learned, slowly and painfully, over those first brutal months: accepting your changed capacity isn't giving up. It's survival strategy. The families who make it through this crisis intact aren't the ones who powered through like nothing happened. They're the ones who got realistic about what they could actually handle and asked for help early.
The Communication That Saved My Business
Three months in, I was drowning. I had two major projects running behind schedule, a client asking increasingly pointed questions about delivery dates, and my boys needed me to be present for their grief while I could barely manage my own. That's when I did something that terrified me: I told the truth.
I sent an email to my biggest client explaining that I was managing my business as a widowed parent after losing my husband while navigating grief, and I needed their patience with some adjusted timelines. I was convinced they'd fire me. Instead, they extended my deadline by two weeks.
This response taught me something crucial: most people want to help, they just don't know how or feel awkward bringing up sensitive topics. When you communicate transparently about your situation while reassuring clients that you're still committed to quality work, you often find grace where you expected judgement.
But transparency requires energy you might not have, so here's what worked for me: I drafted a template email explaining my situation that I could customise for different clients. Having those words already written meant I didn't have to find them during my worst moments, when forming sentences felt impossible.
Building Structure When Everything Feels Chaotic
The morning routine saved us. I know that sounds overly simple, but hear me out. When your world has been turned upside down, both you and your children desperately need something that stays the same. For us, it became the ritual of breakfast together at 7:30, no phones, no work calls: just us and whatever small conversation my boys wanted to have.
Those thirty minutes of predictability gave me an anchor point each day, something I could build the rest of my schedule around. I started scheduling my most demanding work during my boys' school hours, keeping afternoons free for the emotional labour that grief demands from children. They need space to ask questions, to cry unexpectedly, to just be held when the weight of loss hits them again.
I learned to batch similar tasks together during my peak energy hours: usually mid-morning when the grief fog was lighter. Answering all emails at once, making all my client calls back-to-back, handling administrative tasks in designated blocks. This wasn't just about efficiency; it was about protecting my mental resources for the moments when my boys needed me to be fully present.
The Administrative Mountain
Nobody prepares you for the administrative burden that comes with loss. In those first few months, I spent so many hours on tasks that had nothing to do with my business or my boys: death certificates, insurance claims, account closures, legal procedures. Every hour on hold with some company was an hour not spent earning money or comforting my boys.
Our household income dropped by almost 40% immediately, but the time demands increased exponentially. This is the cruel mathematics of loss: less money, more bureaucracy, same bills. I finally hired a virtual assistant for ten hours a week, something I'd never thought I could afford. It turned out I couldn't afford not to.
Having someone else handle routine business tasks: scheduling, basic correspondence, invoice follow-ups: gave me back hours I desperately needed for both grief work and actual revenue-generating activities. Some weeks, that assistant was the only reason my business didn't completely stall.
When Work Feels Impossible
There were days, especially in the beginning, when opening my laptop felt like trying to perform surgery with broken hands. Everything took three times longer than it should have. I'd read the same paragraph five times and still not understand it. I'd start tasks and forget what I was doing halfway through.
On those days, I learned to focus on the absolute minimum: one email, one small project task, one step forward. Sometimes that's all you can do, and it has to be enough. The grief waves come without warning, and fighting them only makes everything harder.
I kept a running list of low-energy tasks for the worst days: things like organising files, updating my website, responding to non-urgent emails. When my brain couldn't handle complex problem-solving, I could still chip away at these smaller necessities. It helped me feel like I was moving forward even when everything felt impossible.
Finding Your People
The isolation hit harder than I expected. Most of my friends were couples with their own lives, their own complete families. I found myself hesitating to reach out, worried about being the sad friend who brought down the mood of every gathering.
But connecting with other solo parents who understood this specific journey became essential. There's something powerful about talking to someone who doesn't need you to explain why you're crying in the supermarket or why bedtime stories make you heartbroken some nights. They just know.
I found my people through online communities, local support groups, and honestly, some unexpected places. We'd text each other during hard moments, share resources, celebrate small victories that only we understood the magnitude of.
The Long View
Seven years later, I can tell you that the crisis phase ends, but the journey continues. My business not only survived but grew stronger because I learned to build systems that accounted for life's unpredictability. My boys and I developed a closeness that came from navigating something impossibly difficult together.
But I want to be honest with you: it doesn't get easier, exactly. The grief changes shape, becomes less acute, but it never fully goes away. Some days are still hard. Some client calls still catch me off guard when they mention their spouse casually. The difference is that I'm no longer afraid of these moments. I know I can handle them.
The version of me who sat at that laptop seven years ago, paralyzed by the impossibility of it all, couldn't have imagined the strength that was growing in those dark moments. Every small step you take right now: every email you manage to send, every deadline you meet, every bedtime story you read while your heart is breaking: is building that strength.
You are not failing. You are not behind. You are doing something incredibly difficult with grace, even when it doesn't feel graceful. Your love and presence mean everything to your child, and your determination to keep building a life that honours both your loss and your resilience is extraordinary.
The cursor might be blinking at you right now, waiting for words that feel impossible to find. That's okay. Start with one word, then another. The business will survive. You will survive. And eventually, when you're ready, you might even discover that you've grown into someone stronger than you ever imagined possible.
Know that you are not alone in this. Know that your struggle is seen and understood. And know that taking it one impossibly small step at a time is exactly how mountains get moved.
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