01/06/2026
Twenty-four years ago today, we said goodbye to our son, Oliver.
He was just nine weeks old.
Those nine weeks were filled with hope, fear, uncertainty, heartbreak and a sadness so deep that, at times, I wasn’t sure how I would ever find my way through it. The world kept turning, but mine (and my family) had changed forever.
Over time, I found myself drawn to the places that asked nothing of me. Forest paths. Quiet water. Open skies.
Nature taught me what nobody else could.
That seasons change.
That broken things can still be beautiful.
That growth can emerge from places that once felt barren.
The work I do today is, in many ways, a continuation of that lesson.
Every story shared, every walk taken, every invitation to pause, notice and reconnect has its roots in a journey I never would have chosen, but one that has shaped who I am.
My son was here for only nine weeks.
Yet the love he left behind has travelled with me for twenty-four years.
And perhaps that is what love does.
It continues.
For many years, I thought I needed to keep going, keep striving, keep proving I was coping. But grief has a way of teaching different lessons.
These days, I live by a simple philosophy:
On the days that I can, I do.
On the days that I can’t, I don’t.
Not because I’ve given up.
Not because I lack resilience.
But because I’ve learned to listen.
To my body.
To my heart.
To what I need.
And I want others to know that this is okay too.
It is okay to rest.
It is okay to stop.
It is okay to sit one out.
It is okay to not participate when you simply don’t have the capacity.
The world will tell you to push through.
Life has taught me something gentler.
Sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is honour where we are.
And so today, as I remember my son, I offer this gentle reminder to anyone who needs it:
On the days that you can, do.
On the days that you can’t, don’t.
🍃🌳❤️
