Life’s events often place us in the position of asking, “Who am I now?”

The most profound of those events is the death of our life partner, because we don’t just lose them, we lose part of who we are. We find ourselves asking, Who am I now?

I have written about that a number of times on the journey from “we to me” following the very sudden death of my husband some years ago. Finding the path back to the new me wasn’t easy. Accepting the changes was extremely hard. But over time we gradually rediscover ourselves and begin to build a different life. It isn’t the life we expected, but it can still be a meaningful one.

I was prompted to revisit that yesterday after spending time with a friend who is being forced to face that reality again for the second time. The first was coming to terms with the sudden death of her husband. She rebuilt her life and found her “new me”. Her second challenge, I suspect, is going to be much harder because this time it isn’t about losing a partner. It’s about losing part of herself and the control she has always had over her own life.

Learning to live life on our own is hard. The journey from “we to me” is dark and emotional. But eventually we can once again enjoy many of the things life has to offer—our freedom, our mobility, our independence, our free will and the ability to make our own decisions.

But my friend is now being forced to face life with a disability. To shed the “new me” she became after her husband’s death and discover yet another version of herself. This time she is confronting the loss of much of her freedom, her mobility, her independence, her free will and some of the control over the decisions that shape her life.

She’s fighting against that reality and, in doing so, may unintentionally be making life harder for herself. But I completely understand why.

Perhaps that’s what makes this journey so much harder. My friend has always described herself as a free spirit, a gypsy. Someone who followed her own path, made her own decisions and lived life on her own terms.

Since her husband’s death she has rarely stood still. She has moved from Sydney to Tasmania, to Port Macquarie, to Runaway Bay, back to Tasmania, then to Warners Bay, buying and selling homes, often without ever seeing them in person. Home was never simply a place. It was wherever she chose to build the next chapter of her life.

Then, in what seemed like the blink of an eye, everything changed. At just 69 years of age she found herself in hospital facing a life-changing decision. Since then she has moved in and out of hospital for almost two years. The last eight months, following a devastating fall and multiple fractures, have been spent in aged care. She is now facing the daunting task of trying to regain some mobility.

Her loss is profound. Her freedom. Her independence. Her dignity. Control over her own body and many of the decisions that shape her life. Her home and the treasured possessions that connect her to happier times.

Perhaps that’s the greatest loss of all. We can lose people we love and, somehow, still find a way to rebuild because we still have ourselves. But when life begins to take parts of us—our independence, our mobility, our confidence, our identity—we’re left asking an even harder question. Not, “Who do I live without?” but, “Who am I becoming?”

Perhaps that is one of life’s greatest challenges. We think we only have to discover ourselves once. But life has other ideas. At different stages it asks us the same question over and over again:

Who am I now?

While we can walk beside my friend as she navigates the next chapter of her life, we can’t walk it for her. None of us knows how long that journey will be.

It’s natural to build barriers when reality feels too painful to accept. Perhaps the greatest gift friends can offer isn’t to push those barriers down, but to gently help lower them, enough to let a little light in.

Life can still hold joy, laughter and purpose, even if it is experienced from a wheelchair. In my friend’s case, it would never be an ordinary wheelchair. It would be the brightest, sparkliest wheelchair anyone had ever seen. Because beneath the body that has been broken is still the free spirit, the gypsy, who has always lived life on her own terms.

Perhaps that’s why I understand her struggle so well. Life asked me, “Who am I now?” after Richard died. It is now asking her the same question, but in a very different way.

The circumstances are different, but the challenge is remarkably similar. Both journeys require letting go of the person we once were so that, over time, we can discover who we are now.

And perhaps one of life’s greatest privileges is helping others discover who they are becoming. Ironically, when we help light that path for someone else, we often find it illuminates our own as well.

When the Universe Whispers

 A few years ago, after my husband died, I left the city and moved to a regional seaside town. It wasn’t a grand plan, just a quiet need to start again somewhere that didn’t hold so many memories, and to be closer to family. I found myself in a place marked with the number 10.

As someone who is deeply spiritual and believes strongly in numerology, that number didn’t stay insignificant for long. Ten is often seen as a number of renewal, a return to self, a new cycle beginning after everything has been stripped back. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the effect it would have on my life. Looking back now, it feels like the beginning of something I was only just stepping into.

What I didn’t expect was what came with it.

Nearby were people who would become far more than neighbours. Aria and Camille (names changed for privacy) in particular became part of my everyday life. Camille arrived in our street just a few months after I did, moving in across the road. She too was a widow, and we bonded over that shared understanding that doesn’t need much explanation.

Camille was theatrical, outgoing, and often delightfully outrageous in the best possible way. Aria, my next-door neighbour, was our gentle, beautiful hippie, grounded and warm, alongside her much-admired husband. Then there were my other wonderful neighbours, let’s call them Rose and John, who also became part of this small, close-knit circle.

The girls shared adventures, and all of us fell into a rhythm of weekly get-togethers at each other’s homes. There were wonderful conversations, much laughter, small acts of kindness, and that steady, quiet presence that, over time, helps you rebuild without even realising it. They helped me find myself again, drawing me out of grief and back into life. And they all loved animals, which, to me, mattered more than I can properly explain.

Life moved on, as it does. Camille and I eventually relocated to another part of the district, but the friendships held. They had already grown beyond streets and postcodes.

Then, somewhere along the way, Camille and I had a falling out. It happens. Life gets complicated, words go unsaid, or said the wrong way, and before you know it, years pass. In our case, three of them. No calls, no messages, just silence where there had once been connection.

During that time, Camille moved away. Then moved again. Eventually she settled about two and a half hours south of where Aria and I now live.

Things might have stayed that way.

But early in 2025, I heard that Camille’s much-loved dog had died. Anyone who has ever loved an animal knows how deep that loss runs. I reached out, not knowing how it would be received, only knowing it felt like the right thing to do.

What I didn’t expect was what I would learn next.

Camille had been in hospital for months following a brain operation meant to stop her falling. It hadn’t worked. What followed was more than a year of her life caught in a cycle of hospital stays, setbacks, and uncertainty. We began speaking regularly on the phone. Her daughter lives in London with her family, and Camille had no one close by. The isolation she experienced is something I won’t fully unpack here, but it was profound.

By November, I found myself helping her move back to the area where Aria and I live. It wasn’t a simple decision or an easy transition. It came after the difficult reality that Camille could no longer safely live on her own. She was told she needed aged care.

That’s where she is now. Bed bound. Working, day by day, to relearn how to walk. Holding onto the belief, as I, Aria and wonderful team at Lakeside do, that this is not where Camille’s story ends. Far too young to find herself having to face that. 

At the same time, Aria is navigating a loss of her own, having recently lost her husband. And somehow, the three of us, two who have already walked that road and one just beginning it, have found ourselves supporting each other in ways none of us could have predicted.

Camille, from where she is, still gives strength, whether she realises it or not.

Aria, in the midst of grief, carries a quiet gentleness that continues to hold space for others.

And I find myself alongside them both, remembering what it is to rebuild and trying to offer something of that back to both of them. 

It would be easy to look at all of this and say that everything happened for a reason. And as someone who believes in signs, in patterns, in the language of numbers, I do sometimes wonder.

The number 10. A new beginning.

A separation that lasted three years, another number often tied to growth and realignment.

A return, not planned, but arriving at exactly the moment it was needed.

Camille and I arriving in the same place, at the same time in our lives, and finding ourselves surrounded by neighbours who would quietly help us rebuild. Two women, both carrying loss, not realising then how much we would come to rely on each other. What began as proximity became connection, and connection became support, each of us, in our own way, helping the other find a path forward when life had shifted beneath us.

Maybe there are threads we don’t always see at the time. Maybe there are moments that gently guide us back toward each other.

But I don’t think it’s as simple as everything being pre-written.

Because even if the signs are there… we still have to choose.

A message sent after years of silence.

A decision to show up.

A willingness to step back into someone’s life when it would have been easier not to.

And that, perhaps, is where the real meaning lies.

Not just in the belief that everything happens for a reason, but in the way we respond to the signs when they appear. The way we act on them. The way we become part of the reason someone else gets through.

Three women. Different paths. Periods of connection, of distance, and of return.

And somehow, when it matters most, we are here for each other.

Not only because the universe may have whispered…

But because we listened.

It’s a story of beginnings, of returns, and of the remarkable ways people can become each other’s reason to keep going.

Because in the end, it’s not just the universe whispering, it’s us, listening, responding, and walking forward together.

The story of Camille, Aria, and Kate is not just about loss or hardship. It’s about the quiet power of connection, the strength we find in each other, and the choices we make to show up when it matters most. It’s about noticing the signs the universe places before us, and then taking action to create meaning, love, and support.

It’s a story of beginnings, of returns, and of the remarkable ways people can become each other’s reason to keep going, when the universe whispers. And all of us can do that. 

You do not get over grief. You can only learn to walk alongside it.

I haven’t had a black cloud day for a long time, but I’m having one today. Black cloud days remind us that healing is not a straight line; even after long periods of stability, these darker days can return. Some describe them as the counterpart to “blue sky days” — moments when someone feels lighter, more at peace, or even hopeful again. Both are part of the natural rhythm of mourning. They come from nowhere. 

Importantly, having black cloud days doesn’t mean we are “going backwards” — it’s part of carrying the grief which never leaves us. I’ve learnt not to fight days like this and to just let the emotions of the day play out. 

I just keep reminding myself that this is a grief wave and it will pass and it will.

The separation of time

I’ve never been one who was that enthusiastic about celebrating my milestone events like wedding anniversaries or birthdays. Albeit I love recognising and celebrating other people’s milestone events. Whilst I was fortunate to have a wonderful marriage, Richard and I usually forgot our anniversary. We even forgot our first. Much to the dismay of my mother-in-law, Richard’s step-mother Lillian. But Richard loved birthdays, and I enjoyed organising special celebrations for him. Whilst I wasn’t that excited about mine, it made him happy to do something special for me, and he had excellent taste, which meant beautiful gifts which were always gratefully received.

Since Richard died, those dates and others take on a new meaning. They are no longer days to forget or ignore. They are a reminder of another event that he missed. My birthday this week is the first of the year 10 events. His absence is painfully highlighted by each of those special days. And in heading towards the 10-years this coming December since he passed is hard. It seems such a longtime ago, but in so many ways it feels like yesterday. And it's hard to explain, but to me 10-years feels like such a significant milestone.  

I have said many times that we get on with life because we have no choice. Tomorrow, things will be back to normal as life goes on until I hit the next milestone event, being Richard’s birthday in October. Forever there will always be those events that continue to remind me of what I’ve lost. 

And the separation of time is challenging because it represents another step away from the life I had and the future we planned. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a good life now, it’s just not the one I wanted.

When We Learn To Be The Willow

There comes a time for all of us when we come face-to-face with unbelievable hardships in life. The death of our life partner is the most profound. Sadly, an inevitability of being human. And facing this hardship and dealing with it is something that life’s wisdom gets around to teaching us. It is a very hard lesson to learn but, “bouncing back” is a central part of the human condition.

How we face grief and cope with it is different for all of us, albeit the emotional roller coaster is the same. It takes time to accept the reality of a new life, and fighting grief makes it harder. Something dare I say I learnt the hard way. Not uncommon for those of us who are skilled at dealing with crisis. We are experts at shifting into must do mode and we file the overwhelming emotional side away. At some point that comes back, and we are forced to deal with it. It is at that point we “hit the wall”.

So like the Willow, when we learn to bend with the winds of adversity (grief) that’s the time we learn how to grow again in times of profound change.

The Importance of Storytelling

When we have the courage to share our stories, it enables others to understand that they are not alone, that many of us are going through the same things. That, in turns helps others to find the courage to share their own journey. When you are struggling, just feeling safe in sharing those experiences is vital. 

When we rebuild our lives and we share that, that inspires others to try something different. Knowing we are helping others gives meaning back to us. Thus, the ripple effect begins. Never underestimate how powerful that is. 

It Will Never Just Be Another Day

 The dilemma of explaining it’s not just another day. Even after nearly seven years, I still (inwardly) struggle with this. In a week’s time, October 2 is my husband’s birthday. Two months after on December 8 will be the anniversary of his death, the 7th since his passing. In a discussion with my brother yesterday, he said, “But it’s really just another day, isn’t it?” That felt like stab through my heart.

He didn’t say it to be unkind because he loved my husband and misses him. He also loves me. He was trying (in a clumsy way) to be helpful. But as we know, those who have not been through the loss of the person they shared every aspect of their life with can ever understand that it is not just another day. It’s the day we relive every minute of the last birthday or the last day of their life. It’s the day that we think about everything that has been taken from us. It’s the day that we have to accept all over again that they’re never coming back. No it is not just another day.

I went on to explain that for 363 days of the year I get on with living life but on those two anniversary days I’m back to where I started. Time does not change that. It will never just be another day for me.