Even Though...
There’s a voice in my head that has been with me for a very long time.
It was there long before Andy died. Long before grief rearranged every single thing about my life. It was there when I was a child who felt unseen and was too scared to open her mouth in case what came out wasn’t good enough. It was there when I started art college and was told — actually told, by someone who should have known better — that I would be the worst in my class.
I was kicked out after the first year.
And then I was accepted into the art college I actually wanted to go to.
And I still didn’t feel good enough to be there.
That voice is persistent. I’ll give it that.
It was with me on Friday, at a business event for women entrepreneurs, as I sat and took in everything being shared in the room. There it was, right on cue, doing its usual thing. You’re not intelligent enough for this. You don’t really belong here. Everyone else has got something you haven’t quite got.
Same voice. Fifty-something years old and still showing up uninvited.
But something shifted on Friday. Because I looked around that room — at women who had taken something hard and built something meaningful — and I realised I was one of them. Not almost one of them. Not nearly one of them.
One of them.
And that’s when the even though hit me.
Even though I was told I would never be more than average — I have built something that genuinely helps people navigate one of the hardest experiences a human being can go through.
Even though I was kicked out of art college — I went on to have a design career, and the creative part of my brain turned out to be one of my greatest assets.
Even though I was left to get through my grief with almost no support — I found my way through it, and I turned that experience into something I now offer to others so they don’t have to feel as alone as I did.
Even though Andy died and I became an instant solo parent who felt completely useless — Orann and I have found our way to each other. It doesn’t look like anyone else’s version of a parent and child relationship. It looks like ours. And it is full of love.
Even though the school system failed Orann, repeatedly and painfully — I learned to roar. To advocate. To stand in rooms and demand better for my son when every part of me wanted to shrink. He is now in the right environment. He is supported. We got there.
Even though I have an ADHD brain that stalls and procrastinates and sometimes makes the simplest things feel mountainous — I built an online business. Slowly, messily, with absolutely no roadmap. I learned email systems and payment platforms and website builds and tax returns and all the things nobody tells you about when you’re just trying to help people.
Even though I made impulsive, uninformed decisions over the years — some of them with very real and very serious consequences for my life — I am still here. Still learning. Still going.
Even though I sometimes make less money now than I did before Andy died — without his income to add to mine — I am closer than I have ever been. And I am proud of where I am aiming.
Even though that voice is still in there, still bitching away — I am on social media as a contributor. I am leading retreats. I am running programmes. I am in rooms I never imagined being in.
I did all of that with the self-doubt still present. Still narrating. Still telling me I wasn’t quite enough.
I did it anyway.
So I want to ask you something, and I want you to sit with it rather than scroll past it.
What is your even though?
Not the version you’d say out loud to someone you’re trying to impress. The real one. The one that acknowledges how hard it has actually been — and also, in the same breath, what you have somehow managed to do in spite of that.
Maybe you’re nowhere near ready to answer that. Maybe you’re still in the part of grief where surviving the day is genuinely enough, and looking for silver linings feels insulting. That is completely valid, and there is no rush.
But if something is quietly stirring — if there’s a flicker of something that sounds like even though this happened, I am still here and I am still trying — I’d love to hear it.
Your even though doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be inspirational. It just has to be true.
Even though…
I’ll start you off: even though you didn’t choose this life — you are still in it. And that matters more than you know.
If you want to share yours with me, my inbox is always open.
xx
Orla
PS.
If this post has stirred something in you and you’re wondering what a next step might look like, I have options for every stage of the journey — from the very first tentative one to something deeper and more supported.
My free private Facebook community Beyond Bereavement Into Bravery is a gentle place to start — a space where you’ll be among people who truly understand, with no pressure and no performance required.
When you’re ready for something more regular, Re-member is my membership for widows — a community that holds you month by month as you find your feet in this changed life.
When you feel a pull towards something more immersive, my retreats offer space to breathe, to be held, and to come home to yourself in a way that day-to-day life rarely allows.
Within is my group programme for widows who are ready to work with their nervous system, their grief, and their sense of self — the next cohort will be opening soon and places are limited.
And if you’d like support that is entirely yours — just you and me — 1:1 work is where we go deepest.
You don’t have to know which one is right. Just start where you are.
Please drop me an email with the word “WITHIN” in the subject line and I will make sure you are the first to know about it when I’m ready to launch it.Â
Or if you’re looking for something gentle to hold you right now, download my free guided meditation here.
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You’re not alone in this truly hard and painful experience – even when it feels like it.Â