On grief, rest, and learning to trust your own slow pace of healing
The last few weeks of August were a bit full and topsy-turvy.
On reflection, it was a good yet emotionally tiring month, so writing had to take a back seat.
But today is a new day and the start of a new week.
And after seeing photos of my friend’s children heading back to school and hearing the familiar cries of busy parents hurrying their children out the door to get to school on time, I feel a bit rusty, but it feels good to ease back into writing and work mode.
There’s something about September and the rhythm of the new school year that draws me in and makes me feel reflective yet alive, even though I am long past the era of going to school or taking my girls to school!
I wonder if you are also aware of that “new school year, new me” energy.
Finishing the Year Strong?
I have noticed lots of posts on social media about “finishing the year strong” and getting back to your 2026 New Year goals.
I get it, and back in the day, I would push myself to “finish the year strong.”
These days, especially since Mum passed away, I want to finish each day and the rest of the year feeling alive, rested, and nurtured.
When caring for Mum, each day carried a familiar sense of loss and worry about what the day would bring.
Weekends, Bank Holidays, even some religious days, passed by and got soaked up in the heaviness of caregiving.
And even now that Mum has passed away, and technically I no longer have to tend to her needs, I still, at times, find myself stuck, ruminating about the past and unsure what the next step is.
From participating in my weekly online bereavement support group, I realise that feeling stuck and unable to move forward is quite common among those of us who attend the group. It seems to be a natural part of the grief process.
So, if you’re reading this and feel this way, that’s OK; please be gentle and know that, for some people, it’s part of grief.
So this morning, hearing schoolchildren rush past my front door while I was meditating and journaling, I found myself writing and reviewing what “new year, new me” looks like for me in this season of my life after loss.
A couple of months ago, at church, our Reverend spoke about “sliding doors”, you know, those moments in our lives when, faced with a choice, we have to decide whether to take a stand for what we believe in or not.
With hindsight, and that’s the beauty of hindsight, I could trace certain patterns, rhythms, and ways of being throughout my childhood, my children’s childhood, my divorce era, and other losses.
So I began looking back at the sliding-door moments of loss in my life.
In the past, when loss arrived, I tended to retreat, keeping busy, hyper-focused on work and on looking after the family.
I would bury my pain in silent tears at night, while during the day I’d smile and say, “Yeah, I’m fine, all is good,” whenever family or friends asked.
The more observant might notice my smile didn’t quite reach my eyes, but after years of hiding behind that glossy surface, only close friends would get a glimpse of what was really going on.
With Mum, there were no sliding doors. I didn’t have that option.
Watching her change through Alzheimer’s and caring for her, I was too exhausted to keep up the performance.
All I could do was pray, breathe, and get through each segment of the day, every day, holding on to the hope that we’d somehow find our way through.
Looking Ahead
So, although I am still Dad’s full-time carer, and his needs are more emotionally taxing and quite different from Mum’s, I now have a little more headspace to look up and wonder:
What might the rest of this year look like?
I know I don’t want to “hustle and end the year strong”; that feels like the opposite of the kindness I’m trying to nurture within.
Instead, I’m sitting with this question:
“What gems and blessings have I gathered through these seasons of caregiving and loss that might help me and support others walking their own path of grief?”
Running the Calm After Caregiving workshop earlier this year was my first gentle move into this space.
Calm After Caregiving was an hour-long workshop offering support to caregivers mourning the loss of loved ones.
The session included guided practices such as breath awareness exercises and a Yoga Nidra meditation designed to help participants find rest and grounding.
You can watch the free replay by clicking on this link.
Now, with my love of writing, I’d like to take it further.
Over the past few weeks, in more peaceful moments, I’ve been writing a little book, a gentle guide, Resting in Grief: Permission to Rest, One Breath at a Time — for exhausted caregivers and anyone experiencing grief.
It is my way of exploring what my intentional season of rest can look like in grief and what tools we could use to support our rest and find peace as we grieve.
It is not ready yet, but I wanted you to be among the very first to know it is coming.
Even as I write that sentence, I feel a burst of relief and notice that tightness in my stomach begins to loosen.
I realise now that part of the reason I wasn’t able to write and publish anything over the last few weeks is that I was still in retreat mode, pouring all my energy into finding the words to start writing Resting in Grief.
Life has been emotionally taxing, and I was worried I would run out of energy, stall, and never finish.
But now that the book is taking shape and I’ve shared this thought with you, I feel okay. It’s okay.
I have to remind myself that as long as I stay rooted in the present, this moment is all I need to focus on. As long as I intentionally return to my breath and grounding practices when life spirals, I can give myself the time and space to take it one word, one day at a time.
And going back to that idea of sliding doors, sharing this with you and telling you that Resting in Grief is coming feels like a solid next step in its own right.
And that, dear friend, is where I feel I am after the last few months, as I grieve and make sense of my loss: resting in grief.
Here’s what I mean about Resting in Grief
Resting in Grief knows that grief doesn’t disappear, or that caregiving stops being hard; it is hard, and some days it drains the life out of us.
But I believe resting in grief is acknowledging all of that while quietly deciding to keep finding a way to live with our loss, a way that allows us to stay connected with life, rested, nourished, and maybe, perhaps, live a little differently.
So here’s a gentle question for you this week, if you’d like to sit with it:
What does “resting in grief” mean for you, if anything?
I would love to hear from you.
If you feel comfortable, please share in the comments what comes up for you when you reflect on the phrase “resting in grief.”
I am still in the early stages of drafting Resting in Grief, so your thoughts, if that’s OK with you, will help me sharpen the throughline, test the waters, and get over the finish line to self-publish this ebook. Thank you.
Lastly, if you are like me, we spend so much time behind the “I’m fine” facade, but underneath it, for so many of us, the pain is always present, and finding how to live with our loss, whatever shade of grey it takes, is, I’ve come to see, all part of having a fresh start every day.
So, dear friend, wherever you are in your own journey of grief, I invite you to pause for a moment, rest if you can, and notice: you are alive.
For we are here, connected through these words on the screen, and together, in our own way and our own time, we can find a way to expand our hearts, rest, rise, and be present to meet another day. Wishing you kindness and peace.
You can explore more simple self-care tips for carers in my Free Calm Kit for Carers.
Thank you for reading my article.
If this piece stayed with you, I’m glad you are here, and I look forward to walking together along the path of grief, caregiving, and the slow work of finding rest again.
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