It Starts with a Cuppa

 This one is hard to explain unless you've lived it. Nobody is waiting for you. I don't mean that nobody loves me. I have people who love me. I have my boys. I have family and friends. I mean your person isn't waiting for you. Nobody is wondering when you'll be home. Nobody is getting the completely unnecessary text saying, "I'm on my way." Nobody is lying beside you at the end of the night while you tell them something that could absolutely have waited until morning. Nobody is automatically your plus-one. You don't realize how many tiny parts of life belong to being somebody's person until suddenly you're not anybody's person anymore. And sometimes it hits in the strangest places. A wedding invitation. A table full of couples. A school event. A holiday. Watching everyone get into their cars together at the end of the night while you get into yours alone. I'm not looking around wishing those people didn't have what they have. Quite...

 There is something nobody really prepares you for after someone dies. Everyone goes home. I don't mean that in an angry way. People have lives. Jobs. Children. Responsibilities. Their own problems waiting for them. And when Paul was sick, we were surrounded by some of the most incredible people. People prayed. People checked in. People showed up. Our family, friends, teammates and community wrapped themselves around us. When you are walking through something as frightening as cancer, you quickly learn just how good people can be. And when Paul died, they showed up again. There were messages. Flowers. Cards. Food. Hugs. People standing beside us when there really weren't any words that could make what happened okay. For those first days, you're almost carried. And then something happens. Life starts again. For everyone else. But Your Life Doesn't Start Again That's the strange part. The funeral ends. People go back to work. The messages slow down. The flowers eventu...

  People love the word grit . It sounds strong, doesn’t it? Like someone standing on top of a mountain, fists in the air, inspirational music playing dramatically in the background. My version of grit looks slightly different. It usually involves messy hair, a cup of tea, a child asking me where his shoes are when they are quite literally beside him, and me quietly wondering how early is too early to go back to bed. But over the last few years, I’ve learned something about grit. Grit isn’t about never falling apart. It’s about what you do after you do. And believe me, I have fallen apart. More than once. There were days during Paul’s illness when I felt like I was holding our entire world together with duct tape, prayer, caffeine, and sheer stubbornness. There were appointments, medications, children, work, sports, meals, laundry and all the ordinary pieces of family life that somehow don’t stop just because your world has been turned upside down. Cancer didn't care that there wer...

  In my first post, I shared why this journey begins with a cuppa. I wrote about the sign in my kitchen, the problems Mum is expected to solve, and the conversations that can begin when someone pulls out a chair and puts the kettle on. Now it is time to tell you more about the story behind the cuppa. My story begins with grá. Grá is the Irish word for love. And for me, grá begins with a man named Paul. Paul and I were only 21 and 22 years old when we met. Six months later, we did what every sensible young couple with their entire lives ahead of them would do. We secretly got married. Apparently, patience and carefully considered decisions were not the foundation of our marriage. But love was. We had no idea what the future would hold, but we knew we wanted to face it together. For the next 23 years, that is exactly what we did. We created a home filled with family, sporting schedules, school bags, muddy shoes, laughter, disagreements, and the beautiful chaos that never feels partic...

 Welcome. Put the kettle on, pull up a chair, and stay for a while. Some people meditate. Some people journal. Some people wake up at five in the morning and go running. I put the kettle on. There is a sign hanging in my kitchen that says, “No problem can’t be fixed by talking to Mum and a cup of tea.” As the mother of two boys, I have conducted extensive research into this theory. I can confirm that tea helps with homework, teenage moods and little kid's tantrums, missing soccer cleats, last-minute school projects, and children who remember—usually at bedtime—that they need something for school the next morning. Tea has also helped me through more than a few emotional breakdowns. It does not necessarily solve them, but it gives me something warm to hold and something to sip dramatically while I reconsider every decision I have ever made. But life eventually taught me something much harder: Some problems cannot be fixed. Not by Mum. Not by the strongest cup of tea. Not even by love...