Over the past few months, I’ve been sitting quietly with the threads of life and listening to the questions rising in my heart.
One question kept returning:
How do I carry on and live my life now that my mum has passed away and everything feels so strange and unfamiliar?
My mum passed away in June 2025 after years of living with Alzheimer’s.
Her death shifted my world in ways I am still learning to understand.
For more than five years, I was her primary carer, and with the support of family and professional carers, we cared for mum, at home.
My life had been shaped around caring, being present, being available, and being on call.
My nervous system was often in hyper-alert mode, and my own self-care slipped through the cracks.
I know I am not alone in this.
So many caregivers become deeply exhausted, putting their own needs aside for long stretches.
If this is where you are, please know this: caring stretches us in ways we may never have imagined.
And then comes the quiet after caregiving, after loss, after life around us begins to return to “normal”.
For me, for the first time since caring for mum, there was space.
Mental headspace.
Space to pause.
Look up and around and ask myself
What now? What next?
It was never just about the workshop
A few months ago, I began working on a workshop called Calm After Caregiving.
On the surface, it felt practical. A way to return to work. A way to begin earning again. A way to rebuild some rhythm into my day.
But as I moved through the process, I realised something important.
I was not just creating or delivering a workshop.
I was reconnecting with something deeper within myself.
Something was stirring inside.
I felt I wanted to live differently, but I didn’t know how – my old way no longer felt right.
It was too fast, too busy, too full.
I longed for space.
Quiet space.
Space to sit with grief. Space to breathe. Space to soften. Space to be kinder to myself.
I wanted to find my way back to myself.
But my mind kept looping, and I found myself fearing what would happen if I fully let go of the pain. It felt heavy, like mud I could not move through.
And after years of caregiving, even the idea of teaching yoga/meditation again, or holding space for others again, sometimes felt like a bridge too far.
Still, I kept pushing through, trying to follow the plan I had made for the workshop.
The doubt, the fatigue, and the body’s wisdom
And, as often happens, my body made itself heard.
Loudly.
Clearly.
I had to stop and listen.
First, I got COVID over Christmas.
My first thought was, really?
Who gets COVID in 2025?!
But recovery was drawn-out and exhausting.
My energy dropped, and I knew I could not carry on as planned, so I moved the workshop to a later date.
I postponed it to the end of February, hoping I would feel better by then.
But my body had other ideas.
I needed more rest than I expected.
I tried to push through the low energy and foggy thinking that followed.
Then, just weeks later, a persistent cough and heavy cold stopped me again. I had to go to bed, dim the lights, and give my body the care and love it needed.
Once again, I was reminded of something I often share:
Rest is not optional.
Listening to your body is not a luxury.
It is essential.
Showing up, even when it felt quiet
As I began to slow down and explore how to pace myself, I found small ways back to myself.
I revisited the early mindfulness and self-care tools I used when I first started practising yoga and meditation.
I found the teachings and practices offered gentle tools to support me as I now lived with grief and loss.
One practice that helped was simple breathing.
I would close my eyes for a few minutes, place a hand on my heart, and focus on the rhythm of my breath.
With each inhale, I would say, I am here.
With each exhale, I soften.
This quiet moment grounded me when the waves of loss felt overwhelming.
When 5th April, 2026, arrived, I finally delivered the workshop; it felt meaningful in a way I had not expected.
The whole process from idea to attending workshop presentations to delivery showed me this is the way I want to work.
I want more space.
More self-love.
More self-kindness.
More presence in the way I show up with my family and friends.
I was tired of always pushing, chasing my tail and firefighting.
The workshop, Calm After Caregiving, was what I needed!
It was a soft, gentle session, a space for those navigating grief and loss to rest, breathe, and reconnect with themselves.
During the workshop, I shared parts of my own journey.
I guided simple, compassionate practices.
And we closed with a nourishing yoga nidra meditation.
As I reflect now, I realise something important.
This was not only about planning and delivering a workshop.
It was much more important than that.
It was about not stressing myself out trying to fit all the pieces in.
I decided that the workshop would become a foundation of the way I work.
A core feature, for now, like a template for how I want to show up in the world.
Aged 63, at this season of my life, I want space to mourn, restore my energy, and reconnect with loved ones who attended mum’s funeral services and supported mum, me and family during mum’s illness.
After losing mum and seeing the care, love and kindness my family and I received from friends, family and even strangers, I realised what really matters deeply to me.
Obviously, financial goals still matter too, but I realised – not at the cost of abandoning myself.
I could clearly see now that I had ignored my body’s call for rest and nourishment for too long.
Planning and delivering the workshop was about how I showed up.
How kind I was to myself in the process.
The old saying keeps returning to me: you cannot pour from an empty cup.
The message is simple, but it is one I need to hear again and again:
Slow down.
Be calm.
Take your time.
The lesson that keeps returning
If there is one lesson this season of life after caregiving and loss keeps bringing me back to, it is this:
Coming back to ourselves is not about pushing harder.
It is about:
- softening
- listening
- being kind to ourselves along the way
So many of us, especially women, have been taught to be the “Good Girl,” the “Good Daughter,” and, in addition, in my case, the “strong Black Woman”.
That meant we kept going.
We stay strong.
We put everyone else first.
I internalised, lived and learned those patterns too.
And as a high achiever and someone who feared failure, I often pushed myself and ignored my body’s wisdom.
So part of my journey now is gently unlearning all of that.
Learning not to abandon myself.
Learning to stay present with whatever feelings or emotions wish to be heard.
Learning to *really* listen to my body.
Learning to care for myself, too.
And most importantly, embracing ways to find a better balance between tending to myself and being present for others.
Finding my way home
In the middle of all this internal inquiry, I rediscovered something that feels like home.
Writing.
And guiding rest through meditation and yoga nidra.
Simple pleasures.
There is something about those moments, when I am writing or gently holding space for others to rest, that feels simple and true.
No performance.
No pressure.
Just presence and connection with myself and others.
And that feels like a quiet kind of healing.
A gentle place to begin
If these words resonate with you, and you are longing for a small, supportive way to come back to yourself, I would love to invite you to join my newsletter and receive The 1-Minute Calm Kit for Grieving Caregivers.
It is a gentle collection of simple 1-minute self-care and mindfulness practices to help you pause, breathe, and reconnect with yourself, one breath at a time.
You can explore the Calm Kit here whenever you are ready.
A softer way forward
As I continue this journey, I am exploring a more sustainable way of living and working.
One that honours:
- my energy
- my lived experience
- the realities of life
More space to breathe.
More gentleness.
More alignment.
Less rushing.
Less pushing.
Less trying to do everything at once.
I accept I am a work in progress, and the hardest part of embracing my intentions will be speaking softly and compassionately with myself when I inevitably slip and return to my default settings.
So, this is where I lean on friends and community to gently pull me up and call me in when I trip and stub my toes.
A gentle invitation
If you, dear friend, are in a season of change, grief, or quiet rebuilding, please know:
You are not alone.
There is no perfect pace.
No prescribed way to begin again.
Only your way.
And if it feels right, I would love to hear from you:
What does coming back to yourself look like for you right now?
With love and care,
Ntathu xxx
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