Widowed AF, House Portland Place (2026)

08/09/2026

September is globally recognised as Su***de Prevention Month, though many prefer the term awareness.

I have no first-hand experience of losing someone close to me to su***de. My husband died in an accident, and I would never pretend to understand the particular complexities of this kind of grief.

But through Widowed AF, I have spoken to many people who do. I have listened to their stories, their questions, their guilt, their anger and their love. And I have been struck by how often, alongside the devastation of losing someone, they have also had to contend with silence, judgement and shame.

These words are taken from the chapter on su***de bereavement in my book, Widowed As F**K. I wanted to include it because these stories deserve to be heard, and because the people left behind deserve the same compassion and support as anyone else who is grieving.

There may be questions that never have answers. And while we can listen, support and encourage people to seek help, we cannot always prevent a death. That is an incredibly painful reality for those left behind.

What we can do is make it easier to talk about suicidal thoughts without judgement. And when someone dies, we can show up for the people who love them.

We can say their name. Ask about them. Make space for the complicated feelings and unanswered questions. Resist the urge to search for someone to blame.

Most of all, we can remember that a person’s death does not define the whole of their life.

To everyone who has shared their experience with me, thank you for trusting me with your stories. And to anyone living with this kind of loss, your grief is welcome here. You do not have to make it easier for other people to understand.

If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, please reach out. In the UK, Samaritans are available free on 116 123, day or night. If you or someone else is in immediate danger, call 999.

***deAwarenessMonth ***deBereavement

07/09/2026

What if I’d just said no?

It’s a question both Paula and I have had to live with.
Paula Thomas’s husband Jeff was an active-duty US Navy submariner. But it wasn’t his military career that killed him. Jeff died in a motorcycle collision while riding Paula’s bike.
He’d asked if he could borrow it that day.
She said yes.
A few days before Ben died, he asked me if I minded him going diving.
I said yes too.
And of course, afterwards, your brain goes there.
What if I’d said no? What if I’d asked him to stay home? What if I’d somehow protected him from the thing that killed him?
But neither of us knew what was going to happen.
Jeff was an experienced rider who knew Paula’s bike. Ben was an experienced diver who took safety incredibly seriously.
And, perhaps most importantly, saying no simply wasn’t how either of our relationships worked.
Because once you start trying to remove every possible risk from the lives of the people you love, where do you draw the line?
Don’t ride the motorbike. Don’t go diving. Don’t drive the car. Don’t go for a hike.
Risk looks very different when you already know the ending.
And I think that’s something many of us who have experienced sudden loss have to wrestle with: trying not to judge the decisions we made then with the knowledge we have now.
My full conversation with Paula is out now on Widowed AF. We talk about Jeff, their marriage, military life, the day he died, guilt, grief, motorcycles, learning to live alongside what happened and finding love again.
🎧 Widowed AF, wherever you get your podcasts.

06/09/2026

I am KNACKERED.

In 7 days I’ve had 2 kids’ birthdays, a sleepover, a party, back to school, recorded 3 podcast episodes (one of which I forgot to switch the cameras on for and subsequently felt like a massive failure), started packing up my house to move, and been to view a school for my daughter who’s been out of education for a year.

I’ve procured birthday presents by selling my worldly possessions, blown up approximately a million balloons, made last-minute dashes for cake and decorations, sent a gazillion emails, forgotten things, made mistakes and had a minor menty b.

And I hate moaning, but my god, sometimes this life is just so hard and exhausting and lonely.

I am frightened of this impending house move. The logistics of it, but also the emotional toll. I’m worried about finances and work and how I’m going to manage this next stage of life.

And even the good bits feel so much tougher when there’s no one to share the load with.

I think what has really got to me this week is how little supported I’ve felt. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I expect too much. But I just feel very alone right now.

I think I just need a hug!!

05/09/2026

For those who don’t know my story, my husband Ben died in a scuba diving accident eight and a half years ago. His body was never recovered.

And I think that changes something about my grief.

There has never been a final moment. No call to say he had been found. No body to bring home. Just the knowledge that, even after all this time, one day that call or knock could still come.

Most of the time I don’t consciously think about it. I have built a life around the not knowing and learned to coexist with it.

But today two police detectives knocked on my door and my body reacted before my brain had even had a chance to work out why they were there.

For a few seconds, I thought this was it.

It wasn’t. They were asking for CCTV footage relating to something completely unrelated.

But afterwards, crying in my mum’s arms, I realised that somewhere inside me I am still waiting.

Eight and a half years later.

04/09/2026

For a long time I thought healing meant eventually leaving the sadness behind.

Now I think it’s more about making room for it.

Because something happened to me that will always be sad. I don’t think there’s any amount of healing that changes that.

But the sadness doesn’t have to take up all the space anymore. A beautiful life can grow around it.

And maybe that’s what healing looks like. ♥️

03/09/2026

You never notice how many dead parents there are in children’s films.

Until your child has one.

Before Ben died, these were just films. Sad bits in otherwise lovely stories. Plot devices I barely gave a second thought to. Afterwards, they can became emotional landmines.

You put on a Disney film on a rainy afternoon and suddenly there’s a dead dad.

You go to the cinema for a bit of escapism and there’s a widowed parent trying desperately to keep their child safe.

A mum dies. A dad dies. Sometimes both of them die!

Sometimes the kids don’t even notice. They’re eating popcorn, asking for snacks, completely absorbed in the film while you’re sitting next to them trying not to completely lose it.

And sometimes they do notice.

Sometimes they look at you and say, “That’s like Daddy, isn’t it?”

And there it is. Because grief doesn’t only ambush you on anniversaries, birthdays and Christmas. Sometimes it sneaks into the most innocent, ordinary moments and absolutely floors you.

Sometimes it comes dressed as a cartoon lion. 🦁

Have I missed any classics?

01/09/2026

A good friend of mine Lisa | The Widow Diaries recently posted some pictures from her camera roll from the week after her husband died.

It made me go and look at mine.

And I found this.

I still remember writing it. I remember ringing his mum to ask if it was OK for me to post it. I was terrified of hurting anyone, but more than that, I needed to reach as many people as I possibly could.

Because there was still hope. There was still a chance that someone might find him.

Reading it now, what strikes me is how bloody articulate I was. Like, how was I even able to string a sentence together?

I will never forget hitting send and how real it suddenly felt.

No longer could I pretend this was a mistake, a bad dream or some sort of sick joke.

The post travelled the world and brought so much kindness to my inbox. I couldn’t make it through all the messages, but there was some small comfort in the kindness of strangers.

And then the update.

“Sadly the search has been terminated. Please allow us to grieve.”

Oh God, my heart hurts so much for that woman.

How frightened and confused and desperate I was. How completely unable I was to envisage a future at all.

And I guess that’s why I’m sharing this now. Because if you are in that place today, if you are scared, alone, helpless and genuinely cannot imagine how you are supposed to live the rest of your life, I want you to know that there is hope. There is help. And you aren’t going to feel this shattered forever.

I won’t tell you it’s been easy, because it absolutely hasn’t.

But there has been joy, there has been laughter, there has been happiness again.

And the pain isn’t quite as acute and all-consuming as it once was.

I wish I could somehow reach back through the years and tell the woman who wrote that post that.

She wouldn’t have believed me.

But I’m so glad she kept going.

01/09/2026

Today my baby girl is 9.

Her dad died when she was just six months old, so for all of her birthdays, it’s been up to me to make the magic.

Luckily, that comes pretty easily, because she is such a magical little creature.

Spirited, strong-willed, hilarious, fierce, wild and generous of heart. And at times scarily similar to her mother.🙊

She was, and always will be, the last gift her dad gave me. And what a gift she is. But I will never stop wishing her was here to see what we made.

I have absolutely no idea what the future holds for this girl. I remain fairly convinced it will be prison or parliament, but I am so grateful I get to be along for the ride.

Happy 9th birthday, my beautiful, magical girl, you make loving fun. ❤️

30/08/2026

I’m not sure I need a National Grief Awareness Day to make me aware of my grief.

I’m aware of it every day.

Sometimes it’s all consuming and sometimes it’s just a quiet hum in the background.

So perhaps today isn’t really for those of us who are grieving.

Perhaps it’s an opportunity for everyone else to think about how we support the people around us who are.

You don’t need perfect words. You don’t need to fix anything. You don’t need to make it better.

Remember their person. Say their name. Keep inviting them. Make specific offers of help. Check in long after the initial flurry of support has disappeared.

And don’t assume that because someone is laughing, succeeding, dating, travelling, working or generally getting on with life that their grief has gone anywhere.

We learn to carry it. We build a life around it.

But we remain very, very aware of it.

Widowed AF

08/09/2026

07/09/2026

06/09/2026

05/09/2026

04/09/2026

03/09/2026

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