This post mentions death and grief.

Intro blurb

A personal reflection on the weeks after my mum’s passing and the slow work of breathing, resting, and finding community when caregiving ends.

A Threshold Moment

On the morning of Friday, 6 June 2025, my beloved mumma passed away peacefully at home.

It has been a while since I wrote and published a blog, but today I sense a shift in my energy.

I am peeking around the corner and tuning into the external world.

Mum’s passing reminds me of the power of the written word and how much writing and sharing our story is part of my and many others’ grief-healing journey.

What follows is a reflection, a glimpse of where I am today, learning to live life after Mum’s passing.

I am sharing it here, in case it reaches someone navigating caregiving, grief, or the quiet shifts of a changing life.

Caring for Mum

Mumma passed in the same room where we had been caring for her since September 2024, after a short hospital stay that left her bedbound.

With the help of kind, skilled carers and devoted health professionals, we created a sanctuary of love and presence around her.

Mum did not always accept help easily.

She clung to her independence, often resisting her carers’ touch with sharp words and a fiery spirit that took me and my daughters by surprise.

We often had to remind her that the carers were kind people, here to help us help you stay clean and tidy.

Living with Alzheimer’s deepened her disorientation, confusion, and distrust of unfamiliar faces and new routines.

That pride and inner strength characterised the way Mum lived, rooted partly in stereotypical cultural expectations of Black Women, and also in the harsh lived realities of her life in the UK as part of the Windrush Generation.

Her Final Morning

On that final morning, none of the labels or identities mattered as Mum softly surrendered.

She passed quietly, without a word, surrounded by our arms, our tears, and our quiet prayers.

The hospice nurses called it a good death, a peaceful and dignified passing in the presence of loved ones.

Now, nearly two months later, through the sadness, I understand what they meant.

It truly was a good death.

The rocks and boulders that shaped Mum’s life seemed to soften, transformed into a serene glow that filled her face with peace.

Still, it feels surreal.

Some days, I gaze in wonder at the new structures and rhythms of my post-care life, remembering that Mum has gone.

She is no longer physically here with us.

The Caregiving Journey

My caregiving journey has stretched every part of me.

Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.

For the past five years, especially the last nine months, my daughters and I have lived in a kind of marathon rhythm.

A day-to-day devotion of unseen acts of care and kindness that left very little room for breath.

My daughters are my heart.

They rose to the occasion with grace, grit, and laughter.

They stayed up through the night.

They learned how to prepare soft blended meals.

How to make Grandma laugh when she looked lost and forlorn.

How to bring life to forgotten memories.

And most importantly, how to stand by and with their grandma in her hour of need.

As a parent, I could not ask for more.

Their love and tender care for my mum stirred deep feelings within me, which were hard to articulate, and in others who witnessed their patience, steady presence, and joy in caring for their grandmother.

My Father’s Quiet Grief

And my dad, he is quietly grieving.

After 65 years of marriage, he has lost his closest companion and friend.

His journey, at 93, continues without the structure and support of Mum, who held the house together.

And speaking of holding the house together, even our home feels different now.

The room where Mum passed retains a quiet reverence of silence.

Yet the rest of the house feels empty, as though something essential to its foundation is missing.

A friend shared she felt the same when her own mother passed.

So, I trust this feeling is part of being human and part of the grief journey.

Grief, Breath, and Rest

July, and now August, are slipping away.

The warm summer nights have lost their edge as the Earth prepares to greet autumn.

I am peeking around the door.

Learning to grieve and walk in public.

To potter around the home, tend the plants, and tuck away items that belonged to Mum.

To reclaim a bit of headspace, one slow inhale and exhale at a time.

What no one tells you about caregiving is how deeply it lodges in your bones.

Even after it is over, your nervous system does not just exhale and move on.

We need space to grieve.

Time to acknowledge our loss.

Support from loved ones, friends, and well-meaning neighbours to help us get through each day.

And gentle reminders:

To be kind to ourselves.

To rest.

To allow ourselves to be held, instead of always holding.

That is what I am learning.

The lifelong lesson that keeps returning: to rest, to breathe, to take care of my happiness, and to be kind to myself.

A Final Tribute Mumma

Mum loved the childhood playground song Brown Girl In The Ring, made popular by Boney M in 1978

As her Alzheimer’s progressed, we took delight in singing and clapping along with her to this song.

Whenever mum’s mood dipped, we gathered around her bed, clicked our fingers, clapped her hands, and jigged along.

The melody lifted all our spirits.

Singing with Mum, sensing her face break into a smile, lit her up.

It connected us and gave us a glimpse of what her childhood might have been like, skipping and singing in the school playground with her friends.

If you feel called and need a lift on your grieving journey, play the song.

Hum. Dance. Smile.

And know I will be thinking of you, humming along with joy.

An Invitation to Community

If you have cared for a loved one, said goodbye to an elder, or carried grief while trying to be everything for everyone else, I’d love to hear from you.

Your story, your breath, and your words may be what someone else needs.

I believe we heal in community. With others who are walking or have walked a similar path.

Key Takeaways

• Grief asks for breath, rest, and a sense of community.
• Caregiving lives in the body. Healing takes time.
• Gentle routines help: small walks, simple meals, and restorative self-care practices.
• Your story matters. Sharing it can comfort someone else.
• Relief and sadness can sit together. Be kind to yourself.

What Happens After Caregiving Ends?

Grief and Recovery FAQ

What is caregiver grief?

Caregiver grief is the swirl of emotions that show up during and after caring for someone you love.

It can include sadness, relief, guilt, and exhaustion.

Many people feel lost or even numb.

This is a normal response.

Grief shows up in its own way for each person and doesn’t follow a set timeline.

How do you cope when caregiving ends?

Start with the basics.

Rest when you can.

Drink water.

Eat a little, even if you’re not hungry.

Go for gentle walks or just sit outside.

Ask friends or family for help with simple tasks, such as preparing meals or picking up groceries.

Participating in support groups, online or in person, can bring comfort.

Try to bring simple routines back into your day to help you feel safe and steady.

How do I rest when my nervous system is on high alert?

Begin with slow, steady breathing.

Try a 3-3-6 breath: inhale for 3 counts, hold for 3, exhale for 6. Five rounds, twice a day, can help. Keep the breath soft and steady.

You can put a hand on your heart to help signal safety to your body.

Avoid pushing yourself to do too much too soon.

Choose one restful thing at a time.

Why do I feel so lost now that caregiving is over?

Caregiving often gives each day structure, urgency, and meaning.

When it’s gone, many people feel adrift, empty, or unsure what comes next. This happens to a lot of caregivers.

Your mind and body need time to adjust to the changes.

New routines and small goals can help guide your days as you heal.

Is it normal to feel relief after caregiving ends?

Yes, relief is common.

It’s okay to feel lighter, even as you miss the person you cared for. Many feel guilty about this, but it just means your mind and body needed rest.

In my case, I welcome the quiet, slower start to the day. I cherish a Sunday morning lay-in.

When alive, mum had double-handed carers four times a day, plus support and visits from family and friends, from the District Nurse and other health professionals.

Our doorbell was on constant alert, and our home felt like a revolving door for everyone. 

Nowadays, that’s all changed, with only the occasional ring for deliveries, neighbours or friends.

 Relief and sadness can exist together.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting peace, quiet, rest and comfort after a long season of tiring care for your loved ones.

So, thank you, dear gentle reader, for walking with me, for listening, for reading my words, for sharing your care, and for being part of my healing.

Your support means more than I can say.

If you’d like to share your story of care and grief, please feel free to comment below or reach out for support. Thank you.

May you find rest in the small pauses of life.

Ntathu xxx