Sometimes I forget what it feels like to be held.
I don’t mean physically. I mean emotionally, mentally, nervously—held in a way where someone actually hears you. Where you don’t have to justify how hard things have been or explain why you’re still not “over it.” Where you’re not strong for anyone. You’re just human.
That happened to me this morning.
I had a call with a professional who’s part of a new support service for my son. If you don’t know, he’s lived through more than any child should have to. The death of his dad at age four. A long series of additional losses that might not seem huge to the outside world—but to a small grieving child, they’ve felt like abandonment. Again and again.
He’s scared I’ll die too. That’s his biggest worry. Honestly? If I were him, I’d be terrified too.
Add to that a school system that didn’t see him—didn’t understand that his behaviours weren’t disobedience, they were dysregulation. They were grief. They were neurodivergence. And all the school did was punish him for not fitting the mold. A mold that was never made for kids like him. Or, let’s be honest—kids like me.
I spent years being pulled aside at the school gate, humiliated in front of other parents. Being told what my son had done wrong. And I said nothing. I didn’t know what was acceptable to challenge. I didn’t know I was allowed to.
Until other parents—SEN parents I didn’t even know—started to nudge me. To say, “You can push back. You should.” So I became the pain in the arse. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
It was awful. And it taught me a lot.
So this morning, when I was talking to this professional—this person who will be gently, gently working to build trust with my son over a very long time—something in me broke open. She listened. Really listened. And I cried. Not little polite tears. Big, hot, real ones.
Because she was holding space for me. And I hadn’t realised how badly I needed that.
I spend a lot of time holding space for others. It’s part of what I do, especially in 1:1 work. People come for movement, for nervous system work, but it often becomes something else entirely. It becomes a place to exhale. A place to say things out loud. A place to be heard.
Today reminded me just how vital that is.
It also reminded me that I’ve been so busy surviving—solo parenting, grieving, adapting, protecting—that I sometimes wonder if I’ve even started grieving properly. I had my year of numbness. Of wandering. Of crying on packed trains and zoning out in front of windows. Of falling apart quietly and politely in all the socially acceptable ways. But grief doesn’t follow a calendar. It sneaks up when you’re trying to function. It hits when someone finally listens.
And I think this is why we need each other. Not just for sympathy or distraction, but for witnessing.
We need someone to say: “You’re not crazy.” “This is hard.” “You’ve done more than most would believe.”
We need places to fall apart. And places to build ourselves back up. And community that doesn’t rush us to do either.
If you’re reading this and feeling like you’ve had to be strong for too long—this is your reminder: you’re allowed to soften. You’re allowed to need support. You’re allowed to not be okay.
And if you don’t have someone holding space for you right now—please, please find a way to be in community with people who get it. Not the ones who tell you to move on. Not the ones who want the tidy version of your grief. The ones who can sit in the mess with you.
I’m trying to build spaces like that. Slowly. Gently. Real ones.
Until then, know this: you’re not invisible. You’re not doing this wrong. And you’re definitely not alone.
With love and understanding,
x Orla
P.S.
If you need a space to be seen and validated, please check out my Support page of various ways I can be there to listen and hold space for you.
There are now some fabulous podcasts out there specific to widows. Two of my favs are:
The Widow Podcast with Karen Sutton (my Remember partner)
Widowed AF with the lovely Rosie
There are also spaces online where you can chat with other widows, my go-to and where I volunteer is with WAY (Widowed and Young) – this is for UK residents only and you need to be under the age of 51 when you person died.
I have other blogs that explore grief, parenting, love, and the chaos of being human. You can read more here, or if you’re looking for something gentle to hold you right now, download my free guided meditation here.
You can also sign up for my newsletter to stay connected, be aware of when my next blog drops, or check out what I’m offering at the moment that might support you in your own story of loss.
You’re not alone—even when it feels like it.
Learning to Celebrate My Birthday as a Widow
I thought Christmas would be the hardest. It wasn’t. It was New Year’s Eve—the moment I realised my husband would never walk into this new year with us. Here’s what that night felt like, and what I’d say to anyone facing their first NYE without their person.
The Grief No One Warns You About on New Year’s Eve
I thought Christmas would be the hardest. It wasn’t. It was New Year’s Eve—the moment I realised my husband would never walk into this new year with us. Here’s what that night felt like, and what I’d say to anyone facing their first NYE without their person.
The Eulogy I Never Gave: Grief, Guilt, and Doing What You Can
What happens when your old job no longer fits the person you’ve become after loss? This blog explores why career detachment is so common in grief, how your nervous system plays a bigger role than you think, and what steps you can take (even without a plan).
When the Job Doesn’t Fit Anymore: Widowhood, Work, and What Comes Next
What happens when your old job no longer fits the person you’ve become after loss? This blog explores why career detachment is so common in grief, how your nervous system plays a bigger role than you think, and what steps you can take (even without a plan).
Nobody Wants to Join This Club — But Damn, the Members Are Good
When grief makes you feel like an alien in your own life, finding people who speak your language is everything. In this blog, I share a powerful reunion with a fellow widow—and the comfort that comes from finally being understood.
Why Two Days Away Can Change Everything – The Power of Retreat
I spent two days visiting the venue for my upcoming grief retreat—and in those two days, I remembered the power of space, connection, and time away from the everyday noise.
Juggling Grief (and Everything Else)
Grief isn’t the only thing you’re carrying. It’s grief and the rest of life. This blog explores what it means to juggle widowhood, overwhelm, and healing — and why self-compassion matters.
When Father’s Day Doesn’t Fit Anymore – Grief and Quiet Rituals
When your child’s dad is gone, Father’s Day can feel like a celebration you’ve been quietly uninvited from. In this post, I share how our family navigates the day with quiet rituals, love, and far less pressure.
Why Are We Left Alone After Loss?
After the funeral ends and the casseroles stop coming, grief doesn’t disappear. It deepens. This post is for the widowed souls left wondering what to do now — and why we so often feel like we’re grieving wrong.
The Unexpected Grief of Losing My Doctor – A Story of Love, Loss & Letters
I went to the doctor’s. I’m terrible at booking appointments—phones are the devil, and I have the executive function of a deflated balloon—so the fact that I stopped in person on a whim was a big deal. The catalyst? A two-hour ordeal dropping my son at school. His...