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  • My Cancer Story — Harsha

    My Cancer Story — Harsha

    Throughout my cancer story, and the other stories I have shared with the world, Harsha’s name has popped up often. Who was Harsha? She was my wife.

    But what I haven’t shared is who she was as a person, before illness took over and changed the persona of a very decent human being.

    I met Harsha on the 28th of March 1979. That alone is a different story. My marriage was arranged and our meeting organised by mutual family members. We got married on the 6th of October that same year. And our journey that would last forty years began.

    Harsha was a happy-go-lucky person. Bubbly, affable, very quick to make friends, and an entertainer — both dancing and dinner parties. She loved life and people. She loved children, and that shows in our two, Mitesh and Rakhi. Harsha was a choreographer and created many dance routines from Bollywood film songs, which she presented at our community’s annual programmes. She also took part in some of her own creations. She loved cooking and inviting family and friends over, where there was sure to be a feast.

    My brother remembers her this way: “Someone that would feed you with all her heart and even then, it wasn’t enough. The centre of any gathering. Positive, loving, caring and giving. Loud — getting excited and happy. Dedicated to family and friends. Inspiring and creative. She loved her music, her kids, her grandkids. Someone I have fond memories of. This is just a snippet. Miss her always.”

    He said it better than I could. And he only had a snippet. That is who she was. That is who I was fighting to come home to.

    What went wrong.

    She had a mini-stroke in 2004. Initially diagnosed as a TIA, where her recovery would be quick. But it wasn’t so. The stroke had created a lesion on the front temporal lobe, which caused memory issues and partial complex seizures. This went undiagnosed for a long time. It was only during a brain scan that two lesions were discovered — probably caused by the seizures, which had also gone undiagnosed. This set the grounds for what was to follow in our lives.

    Fast forward to April 2007. I had a confirmed diagnosis of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and my treatment was to start on the 17th April, beginning with chemotherapy.

    But Harsha hadn’t been told. She was herself an inpatient at the same hospital. Maybe God had helped me — getting her looked after in the ward while my own diagnosis was in progress. I don’t know how I would have coped if she had been at home, with no care plan in place.

    After my first chemotherapy session — which was, ironically, in the ward next door to hers — Harsha kept wondering why I kept going there for meetings with the doctor and nurses. I had made excuses that we were discussing her treatment.

    But this couldn’t carry on. Harsha needed to be told whilst she was still in hospital, so we could be there to help her through whatever came next.

    The nurse brought Harsha into a private room. She sat down, the nurse holding both her hands. The worried look on Harsha’s face pained me. Bemused, she looked at the nurse and the doctor, then at me. She mumbled something — “what’s wrong?”

    The nurse began by telling her about my diagnosis.

    Harsha’s jaw dropped. Mouth wide open, quivering lips, and almost a tear coming down her face. She was shaking. She said: “No. Not my Dad.” That’s what she called me.

    I could see the panic in her eyes. What’s going to happen to me if Dad dies — she must have thought it, even if she couldn’t say it.

    The nurse was very good. She calmed Harsha down, still holding her hands, giving a squeeze every now and then. She explained everything — the type of cancer, the chances of survival, the treatment plan. There was a huge sigh of relief at the very optimistic news. I think the doctor and the nurse breathed a sigh of relief themselves, having navigated the situation to a good conclusion. Harsha had calmed down. She was drinking a sweet cup of tea, relief clearly showing on her face and in her eyes.

    Then the nurse and doctor gave us some personal space.

    We kept staring at each other, trying to read what the other was thinking. But the look and the damp eyes said it all.

    Finally, I got up from the armchair. I went to her, held her hand, and stood her up — so I could give her the longest hug possible.

    This is Part 5 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • My Cancer Story — Telling the Children

    My Cancer Story — Telling the Children

    I knew this was going to be difficult. I had never kept anything from my son or daughter. They already knew something was wrong and that I had been going to hospital for urgent tests. They had also heard the word cancer mentioned while I was at the hospital with Harsha, so they were already frightened.

    With their mother already in hospital, the thought that their father might also have cancer must have been overwhelming. Rakhi was about 18 and Mitesh 25, and both were deeply anxious. No child wants to see both parents in hospital, both seriously ill. They had never fully accepted their mum’s condition, telling themselves it was all a bad dream and that she would somehow wake up and be herself again. But life does not work like that.

    When all the tests were finally complete and I had my diagnosis and treatment plan, I knew it was time to tell them, even before I told their mum. We all knew how Harsha would react to the news. What I did not know was how they would react to mine.

    I sat them down in the private family room and we held each other’s hands. The worry was plain on all our faces. My hand was trembling, and they must have felt it, because they held on even tighter.

    “I’ve got cancer,” I said, my voice trembling and breaking as if I couldn’t say the words out loud. It was Hodgkin’s lymphoma, found in a lymph node at the back of my neck. We all began to cry. I told them the outlook was very good because it had been caught early. It was Stage 2. I explained the treatment plan, how long I would be off work, and what they could expect.

    Mitesh said “Don’t worry Dad, we’re in it together.” Rakhi had tears streaming down her face. She wanted to give me courage, wanted to tell me not to worry — but her emotions were getting the better of her. She could not yet fathom the scale of what lay ahead. Neither could any of us.

    We stood up and held each other in a group hug. They clung to me as if letting go might make it all more real. We stayed like that for a long time.

    This is Part 4 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here: https://shoutyourheadoff.com/my-cancer-story/

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support (https://www.macmillan.org.uk) and Cancer Research UK (https://www.cancerresearchuk.org) offer information, support and helplines.

  • My Cancer Story — The Treatment

    My Cancer Story — The Treatment

    By April 2007 I had my diagnosis. Hodgkin’s Disease, Stage 2. Ninety-five percent chance of survival — good odds, the doctor said. What nobody tells you is what the treatment feels like from the inside. This is that part of the story.

    On 8th April, the course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.

    Sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.

    And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.

    But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.

    If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

    It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?

    I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.

    The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.

    For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.

    I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.

    This is Part 3 of My Cancer Story. Read the full series here.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • The Lump I Ignored

    The Lump I Ignored

    I was having lunch in the work canteen. I have a habit of passing my hand at the back of my neck — a kind of self-massage, something I’ve always done. That’s when I felt it. A very small lump, on the left side. The right side was smooth, as it always had been. I carried on eating. Carried on chatting with my colleagues. And when lunch was over, I went back to work.

    But I never stopped thinking about it. I kept touching it, wondering. Weeks passed. Then months.

    By the time Christmas came, swallowing had become difficult. Not impossible — just enough to notice. I needed a sip of water to wash down every mouthful of food. In November 2006, I went to my doctor and asked for a referral to an ENT specialist.

    In February 2007, my wife Harsha and I flew to India for a wedding. We didn’t know then that the referral letter had never arrived. The hospital had returned it — misdirected, undelivered, as if it had never been sent. My doctor hadn’t known either.

    When I came back from India, I pushed for an earlier appointment. That’s when I found out. The doctor was not happy. Neither was I — though “not happy” doesn’t quite cover it. He examined my throat again. Felt the left tonsil with his fingers. Said it felt soft. Didn’t think it was serious. But he wrote an urgent letter himself, directly, and this time it worked. On 22nd March 2007, I walked into the ENT clinic at Wexham Park Hospital.

    I had a bad feeling.

    I’ve always been a man who prays. Since before Christmas, I had been asking God to give me the strength to deal with whatever He throws at me. The past few years had been tough. Harsha was not getting any better, and it had started to feel like this was simply the way the rest of our lives was going to be. Now, sitting in that waiting room, I was asking again.

    The wait, though not long, seemed like forever.

    I walked into the room and was welcomed by a pleasant young doctor who introduced himself as Dr Pope. No pun intended. I answered a few questions about my general health. Then he got out a throat instrument, I opened wide, and the first words I heard were: “Oh dear. Do you mind if I get a colleague to look at this?”

    “No of course not,” I said. Mildly.

    He came back a couple of minutes later with another pleasant doctor by the name of Dr Wood. Dr Wood followed the same procedure, then started talking in medical terms with Dr Pope. I asked them politely to explain.

    Dr Pope told me that the tonsil was more of a lump in the throat and needed urgent investigation and then subsequent removal. He arranged for me to have a blood test straight away and asked me to return to the clinic afterwards for more urgent appointments. A nurse by the name of Bally was waiting for me with a sheet of paper — a couple of dates and what to do. An MRI scan in eight days’ time, followed by an appointment at King Edward Hospital, Windsor, on 2nd April.

    So from the 22nd March to the 30th March — a long, anxious wait. And even longer still from then to Monday 2nd April, even though it was only a matter of three days.

    30th March 2007. This is the day. This is the one that will put a stamp on the doctors’ fears and mine too.

    I turned up at Wexham Park for my appointment and once again waited anxiously. I went into the room and for some unknown reason, it felt cold in there. I sat down and could see the doctor had the monitor screen open to my MRI scans. “Hello, Mr Joshi. Take a seat please.”

    As I sat down, I couldn’t help but look at the monitor screen.

    He did not beat about the bush. “I’m sorry to tell you that you have a type of cancer. We don’t know exactly what type and how far it has progressed. We will do some more tests immediately to determine what course to take. It looks like we have caught this early, but the tests will confirm everything. Please do not worry — you are in good hands now.”

    Little did he know that I had been petrified since its first detection. I smiled and lied to him. “I’m very strong, Doctor, so I’m not worried — for me, that is.”

    “Good. That’s half the battle,” he said.

    1st April 2007. The previous day I had a biopsy at King Edward VIII Hospital. The nurse who did my ultrasound on the neck and took the biopsy sample said: “How long have you had this? You should have done it sooner.”

    “Thanks mate. I would have, if I’d known.”

    Things were moving fast now. An appointment had been made for 3rd April for a pre-assessment before the operation to remove my left tonsil on 4th April. It was also Pratibha’s birthday.

    But that is not why I remember 1st April.

    I feel so lonely. Not lonely for company — I had support from family, from Bipin, from people who rallied around me. But lonely in the way that only one person in a room full of people can feel lonely, when nobody in the room is carrying exactly what you are carrying.

    When Harsha had the epileptic fit, I was alone at home. I had left her there while I went to get the ultrasound and biopsy. I had also just finished calling Bipin to tell him the news about my cancer. I remember I was in tears. He had offered to come down straight away, but I had refused. And then, only a few minutes after I put down the phone, Harsha was being taken by ambulance to hospital. She didn’t know anything yet.

    Mitesh was working. Rakhi was at college — or so I thought. None of them could come to the hospital. I had my pre-assessment in the morning. I had no choice but to let matters take their course.

    Harsha got into hospital at about 4pm. And little did I know that the cancer ward was next door to hers.

    I got home so late. Exhausted — physically and mentally. I can’t remember dropping off to sleep.

    I need to say something here about Rakhi. Every father who has a daughter, who has watched her struggle through her teenage years with things she couldn’t tell him, will understand what I am about to say without me saying very much at all. She was going through a crisis of her own — one that had been building long before my diagnosis, one that had its roots in the kind of company a young woman can fall into when she is not yet sure of herself. I was already being torn apart by Harsha’s illness. Then came my own.

    We were close — as much as a father and daughter can be when there is already a storm inside the family home. But we were also far apart. I did not push. She did not speak. Some things are best laid to rest for now. What I will say is this: she found her way back to me. She wrote me a letter — a letter I will keep until my last day. It is too personal for these pages. But it exists. And that matters more than anything I could write here.

    3rd April. My pre-op appointment was done and dusted. I knew what to expect tomorrow. Harsha was in Ward 9 West. I went to her, and she had no idea about my operation in the morning. After her mini-stroke in 2004, she had never been quite the same. She was in no state to understand or accept what was happening in our lives. I spent all the visiting time in the ward with her. All the time, I had to put on a brave face and not show the stress tearing my insides out.

    4th April. I had a sleepless night and went in for the operation to remove the lump in my throat. It was a day procedure and I was back with Harsha in her ward by 12:30pm. She still had no idea. The “lump” had gone for more tests.

    7th April. I was seeing the oncologist and specialist nurse for an update and a course of treatment. As I sat down, my heart was in my throat. The worried look on my face must have been so obvious.

    Dr Moule, my oncologist, explained that what I had was called Hodgkin’s Disease and it was at Stage 2. That was good news. The type of cancer I had was treatable, with a 95% chance of survival. Treatment to start in ten days, on 17th April. A course of six chemotherapy sessions, followed by radiotherapy.

    8th April. The course was set. I had been signed off work for six months.

    Now, sitting by the bed with Harsha in her ward, I was finding it so difficult to concentrate on anything. My mind was breaking down all the information, building up possible scenarios. What if this, or what if that happens? Money was up there, top of the list. What will happen to us? The house, the mortgage, the bills, the food. So many thoughts. So many questions. And no answers. The heart was racing. Head in a spin.

    And then I finally succumbed to the tiredness and dropped off to sleep in the armchair at the side of Harsha’s bed.

    But despite all of it — the family rallying, Tish supportive, people I loved surrounding me — Harsha was top of the list. I was getting so desperate. How is she going to cope when I have to go for chemo? Who will look after her? That question never left me. Not once. Not through any of it.

    If you have never had chemotherapy, I hope you never do. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

    It felt like ants crawling on the inside of my body. My head felt like a lead weight on my shoulders. I used to bury my face into the corner of the sofa armchair and wish for it to pass quickly. I suffered through six sessions, with re-hospitalisations when the chemo sent my temperature dangerously high. And even then — even in the armchair, even in the hospital bed — the same thought, playing on a loop. Who is going to look after Harsha?

    I cried. I want to be honest about that. I cried alone, in the upstairs bathroom, where nobody could hear. That was the only place I allowed it. Then I washed my face and went back downstairs.

    The radiotherapy was done in Reading, Berkshire. So that was the routine — drive there, treatment, drive back, put on the carer’s face, keep going. Harsha’s illness was such that she did not fully comprehend the scale of what was happening to us both. So I kept going.

    For the radiotherapy, a mask was made of my face and neck — a silicon mesh sheet, moulded to my face and the top of my shoulders, with two holes for eyes. It was attached by wing nuts to the gurney. The radiation itself lasted no more than ten seconds. Ten seconds. It may have felt like an eternity, because of everything that came before it. Lying still. The mask bolted down. Your face screwed to a table with wing nuts, knowing there is no escape from this.

    I picture it now, nineteen years later. I can see what I didn’t let myself see then. What I didn’t let myself feel. Panic. Pure panic. Pushed down, swallowed, driven home, set aside.

    It took about a year and a half from diagnosis to sitting opposite Dr Moule for what I hoped would be the last time. He turned the monitor towards me to show me what had happened to the cancer.

    The news was good. Very optimistic. Not completely out of the woods — I would return for tests every three months, then every six months, then yearly, until five years had passed and I could be told I was in remission. But the cancer that had started as a small lump in the back of my neck, noticed one lunchtime in a work canteen and then quietly, determinedly ignored, had been caught and treated and beaten back.

    There was no one to hold my hand. There was no fanfare. No happy screams. Just a subdued atmosphere. Dr Moule was the one to wake me from my deep thoughts and solemn look — he tried to cheer me up. The nurses smiled and silently clapped.

    That was it.

    I was done.

    This piece is the first in a series about my cancer diagnosis in 2007. The full story — the years that followed, caring for Harsha, and what happened next — continues on the My Cancer Story page.

    If you or someone you know has been affected by cancer, Macmillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK offer information, support and helplines.

  • A Note from Anil — Closing the Series

    A Note from Anil — Closing the Series

    When I first imagined this series, I didn’t expect family members to step forward the way they did. Grief is personal. It sits in places we don’t always let others see. And yet, one by one, five people from our family wrote honestly about the hardest things they have ever carried — with Bipin finding the courage to write not once but twice, about his own grief and then about our sister Sumi. In doing so, they showed me that we still look after each other. That, more than anything, is what this series became.

    The piece that stopped me was Pragna’s. I was there in those days after we lost Sumi, turning up after shifts, doing what I could within the restrictions Covid forced on all of us. When I read what she wrote, she hit me somewhere I wasn’t expecting. She put words to something I had felt but couldn’t say.

    To everyone who has read this series — thank you for staying the course. I know it isn’t easy. Reading about grief when you have lived it yourself opens wounds that never fully close. That you kept reading means more than I can say.

    We wrote these pieces because we loved the people we lost. I hope that comes through on every page.

    — Anil J

  • Sumi’s Story

    Sumi’s Story

    My Sister Sumi was the eldest amongst us siblings and, after my mum passed away, she became a second mother to us all.

    My first real memory of her was when she returned from India, where she had been sent to school in Vadodara by our mum and dad. To this day, I do not fully know why they made that decision, but I am sure it was done with love and what they believed was in her best interests.

    From the moment she came back into our lives, she was always there for us. Caring. Protective. Doting on every one of us in her own quiet way.

    She had a deep love for cooking. I still remember one occasion in Kampala when she made toasted sandwiches with a potato filling. It sounds simple now, but in those days it felt unusual and special, almost like a little piece of magic from her kitchen.

    Sumi also loved reading. There was nearly always a radio playing softly in the background with old Hindi songs drifting through the house. Even today, whenever I hear songs from the 1960s, my mind immediately goes back to her. The music carries memories of warmth, family, and a time that now feels so distant.

    She was one of those people whose presence brought comfort without needing attention. She gave so much of herself to others, often quietly and without recognition.

    My greatest regret is that when she took a turn for the worse during Covid, I was unable to see her in hospital. Those were such cruel times for families everywhere. She reached out to me with a garbled text message. The words were unclear, but somehow I understood exactly what she meant. It was enough for me to know that she was thinking of me.

    Even harder to bear was the fact that, because of the Covid restrictions, we were not allowed to attend her funeral. There was no final goodbye, no embrace, no chance to stand together as a family and honour her life in the way she deserved.

    For a long time, that sadness stayed with me. It still does in many ways. Some losses never fully settle in the heart because they feel unfinished.

    Recently, on the anniversary of her passing, so many memories came flooding back. But alongside the sadness came gratitude. Gratitude that we had someone like Sumi in our lives at all.

    I will never forget her smile, her gentle counsel, or the unconditional love she had for her family. Some people leave behind possessions. Others leave behind memories. Sumi left behind love, and that is something time can never take away.

    — Bipin J

  • What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    Tejal’s Story

    Losing my mum changed me, I’m not the person I was and I will never be that version of me again. Losing her felt like my entire world was thrown off its axis. I didn’t realise how much she used to straighten me during a storm, or centre me when I felt lost. A few days with her, just pottering around and spending time with her reset me in ways I never really understood until she was gone. Grief is all consuming, it comes in waves, some days you laugh at a funny memory and then on others you sob at a different one.  I kept thinking about how I would never hear her voice or laugh again, smell her scent, hold her hand, give her a hug, paint her nails and just be with her. And if I had known the last time I did all those things was the last time I would do them, I would soak in every drop of being around her one…last….time.  

    For just over 3 years after she passed, I existed. I went through the motions of waking up, brushing, showering, working, but my days became a checklist and I just got through the day by ticking off the to do list. 6 months after my brother and his wife had their little girl, it tripped a switch in my head and my heart. I thought about how mum would feel if she could see what I was doing to myself, and I looked at myself through the eyes of my niece and realised I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I miss my mum every single day but she wouldn’t want me to just exist, she would want me to live, and she would want me to be happy.

    People don’t know how to talk about someone dying, or what to say to a person who is grieving. The truth is, there is not a lot you can say but there are a lot of cliches that a grieving person DOES NOT want to hear; “It was their time to go” “We are all going to die one day” “They are in a better place now”. If these are the only things that come to mind when faced with a grieving person, “I’m sorry for your loss” is enough because it is just that. It’s a loss of a life that meant the world, it’s a loss of all the things I didn’t get to do with mum, a loss of the experiences I would go through and not be able to share with her, the lost calls, meals, messages, birthdays, celebrations and everything in between.

    Before she became our mum, she was a daughter, a sister, a friend and while I hate to admit it, I took her presence for granted. I only saw my mum, I didn’t see the other hats she wore for the other relationships she had. I think about what I would say to her if I could go back in time. I would take a million photos, I would record her talking to me about anything, I would ask her about her life before she got married and what her favourite memory is. I cherish the time I got to spend with her before and after I got married.

    If I had to sum up in one word what grief has taught me, I would say it’s strength. To wake up every day and live life like a part of you hasn’t gone with them. To go to work and carry on like any other day, to be in social situations when it’s the last place you want to be. Waking up and trying to live a life you used to live but without someone who anchored you through every up and down requires strength. You don’t realise how strong you are until it’s the only choice you have.

    By Tejal M.

  • What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

    What I Wish I’d Known About Grief

     

    It happened in a supermarket.

    I walked in with a list in my hand and nothing particular on my mind. And then I stopped. Right there, near the entrance, was an entire display of Mother’s Day cards. Balloons. Flowers wrapped in cellophane. Mugs with Best Mum written on them in cheerful fonts. The kind of display that on any other year, in any other life, I would have walked straight towards.

    Instead, I just stood there. And it hit me. Not gradually, not gently. All at once. The biggest hole I have ever felt. Right in the centre of my chest. The kind of absence that doesn’t have edges, that you can’t see the shape of until something like this forces you to look directly at it.

    I cried. Right there. In front of the cards and the balloons and the flowers.

    And then I did something I have done every year since. I picked up a card. I read it slowly. I chose the one that felt most like her. And I bought it.

    Because wherever she is, she will always have my love. Mother’s Day doesn’t stop just because she’s no longer physically here to receive it. If anything, it means more now. It’s my quiet insistence that she is still my Mum. That nothing — not distance, not time, not even death — changes that.

    That’s grief. It doesn’t knock. It doesn’t wait for a convenient moment. It just arrives. In the middle of a meeting, whilst you are driving, in the opening bars of a song, in the flash of a memory you didn’t know you were carrying. It catches you completely off guard, and then it looks at you as if to say, what did you expect?

    My Mum passed away in April 2020. At the height of Covid. She was silently strong, extraordinarily kind, and she loved her children with a fierceness that never needed to announce itself. I am the eldest of three. And six years on, I am still learning what it means to live in a world she is no longer physically in.

    This is what I wish someone had told me.

    She died alone. And I have had to make peace with that.

    When the phone call came, I wasn’t there.

    None of us were. Covid had made sure of that. My Mum took her last breath in an isolated room. No hands held, no words whispered, no forehead kissed. We couldn’t perform our religious duties. The funeral was held online. My Dad, my siblings, my Uncle, sat together in a room while the rest watched through a screen. The world was in crisis and somehow, in the middle of all of it, we were also supposed to grieve.

    The guilt of that absence sat with me for a long time. We were always around each other. That’s just who we were as a family. And the thought of her leaving without one of us beside her, without feeling the warmth of someone who loved her, is something I have had to consciously, repeatedly, gently, lay down.

    What I know now is this: love doesn’t require presence to be felt. She knew. She always knew.

    Grief doesn’t go away. And it was never supposed to.

    Here is the thing nobody tells you. Or perhaps they do, and you simply cannot hear it until you’re living it. You do not get over grief. You don’t move past it. You don’t reach a finish line where you collect your certificate and rejoin the world as your former self.

    Grief moves in with you. It rearranges the furniture. Some days it’s quiet and you almost forget it’s there. Other days it’s sitting right in the middle of the room, taking up all the space, refusing to be ignored.

    And here’s what I’ve come to understand about that. It’s not something to fix. Every time grief surfaces — in the supermarket, in a meeting, in the middle of a perfectly ordinary Tuesday — it’s not a sign that something is wrong with me. It’s love. It’s love with nowhere to go. Every tear, every memory, every involuntary smile when something reminds me of her. That’s not sadness. That’s her. That’s us. Still.

    So I stopped trying to get over it. And I started letting it be what it actually is.

    The moments she missed. That’s a particular kind of ache.

    There’s the grief of losing someone. And then there’s the quieter, stranger grief of watching life continue without them.

    My cousin got married. My niece was born. We got our first dog — this ridiculous, wonderful creature who my Mum would have absolutely adored and definitely spoiled. And through all of it, threading through the joy like a fine, bittersweet ribbon, is the thought: she would have loved this. She should be here for this.

    Even when Trump was re-elected, my first instinct was to call her. And then the second thought, following close behind, was: actually, Mum, you’ve been spared this one.

    She would have laughed at that. I laughed for both of us.

    That’s the thing about grief over time. It doesn’t only live in sadness. It lives in joy too. In every milestone and celebration and ridiculous news headline, she is somehow present in her absence. I’ve stopped seeing that as painful. I see it now as her still being woven into the fabric of my life.

    What helped. And what didn’t.

    People mean well. I want to say that before I say anything else. The people who reached out, who sent messages, who showed up — they were doing their best in an impossible situation.

    But if I never hear the phrase she’s in a better place again, I will consider that a gift.

    I understand the intention behind it. I do. But in the rawness of fresh grief, all I could think was: the better place is here. With me. At the dinner table. On the end of the phone. In the kitchen making chai. The better place is next to the people who love her.

    What actually helped? A plate of food left on the doorstep. Flowers with a simple note. A friend who sat with me and didn’t try to fill the silence with words. Just presence. Just being there. Covid stole the hugs and I felt that loss within a loss more than I can properly articulate. There is something about being physically held by someone who loves you that no Zoom call can replicate.

    If you are ever trying to support someone in grief and you don’t know what to say, that’s fine. You don’t need to say anything. Show up. Bring food. Hold the space. Silence offered with love is one of the most profound gifts one human being can give another.

    What she left inside me.

    My Mum was once described to me as silently strong. That phrase has stayed with me. Because it’s exactly right. She didn’t need to be loud about her love or her strength. She just was those things. Consistently, quietly, completely.

    And I’ve come to realise — she left that in me.

    Not as an inheritance I had to claim, but as something she planted so early and so deeply that it simply is part of who I am. Her kindness lives in the way I move through the world. Her acceptance of me — all of me — lives in the work I do helping others feel that they belong. Every time I hold space for someone who feels unseen, I am, in some quiet way, continuing her.

    Grief cracked me open. And what grew in that space was a deeper understanding that every single person I encounter is carrying something I know nothing about. That beneath every surface is a story. That the most powerful thing we can offer each other is not advice, or solutions, or reassurance, but simply the willingness to be present. To see someone. To let them know they are not alone.

    My Mum taught me that without ever needing to explain it. She just lived it.

    To you, reading this.

    Maybe you’re in the early days of loss. Maybe you’re years in and you still cried somewhere unexpected this week and felt embarrassed about it. Maybe you’re somewhere in between, navigating a grief that the world thinks you should be over by now.

    I want you to know: you are not behind. There is no timeline. There is no correct way to do this.

    And those tears that catch you off guard — in the supermarket, in the middle of meetings, whilst you’re driving, when a song comes on that you weren’t ready for — that’s not weakness. That’s not you failing to cope. That is love, still alive in you, still looking for its person.

    You are carrying something sacred.

    And you are not carrying it alone.

    In loving memory of my Mum — Sumitra. August 1946 to April 2020.
    The better place was always here.