Session one of grief counselling was incredibly challenging. I had to voice painful truths and confront emotions I’d been burying deep inside. I had to say out loud what I had been seeing in my visions. But the hardest part was the aftermath.

I was struggling with Tilly, our adopted dog (my Dads), and felt overwhelmed. I reached a breaking point and just exploded. Tears, sobs, and pain poured out uncontrollably. This was my greatest fear—losing control, unable to stop crying, feeling like I was back where it all started: inconsolable.

It was a drowning feeling, a sense of utter despair. My eight-year-old son came in and asked if I was okay (which he never does). I simply said, “No.” No explanations, no words, just a raw admission of helplessness. He hugged me and sat with me in silence for ten minutes. It melted my heart. What a kind soul. It was a mature thing to do—holding space for someone without words, just with contact and understanding.

I didn’t need to explain. He later told me he knew it was about Grandad. He just knew. My heart felt broken and in pain again. It was a horrible place to be.

One thing I have realised is that while I’m not a controlling person, I do need a sense of control to feel secure and safe. That’s my security blanket. During my dad’s death, managing the finances and paperwork gave me a sense of purpose and control. Without it, I felt like I was falling.

I mentioned in my first blog post that I took a photo that perfectly captured the early stages of my grief: me walking onto a rugby pitch surrounded by darkness (please check out that blog), yet ahead were the floodlights, coaches, and players. It was bizarre. I could see others moving forward with life, but I couldn’t reach them. I was still in the darkness.

It is like having an outer body experience. You are looking at your life and shaking your head “this can’t be happening to me”. It’s like something out of a horror film.

I knew I would eventually reach the light, but I just couldn’t see the path yet.

Since the first session, I’ve been feeling better. Wednesday morning, I felt fragile—like I could cry if someone said “Boo.” But as the day progressed, things improved. Was I avoiding my feelings? Distracting myself to feel better? I’m not sure, but it worked and felt better than the night before.

The difference now is that I have someone to talk to about these things. I’m not avoiding them all the time; I’m moving forward and healing.