Rachael’s Story

My mum was what some would call a character- the kind of person you met once and never forgot. Brave and resilient, she also had a wicked sense of humour and a lively presence that drew people in. People still laugh as they share stories of her antics, and only after her passing did I fully grasp the depth of her courage.

I was 27 when I lost my mum suddenly to a brain aneurysm. I’d just reached a huge career milestone and felt like I was on the verge of something big. I couldn’t have imagined what would come next. My Mum passed away during Inbetweenmas, we’d spent Christmas together and there had been nothing to indicate something was wrong. I remember sitting in the hospital in shock surrounded by Christmas decorations. In fact, I remember thinking she looked the happiest I’d ever seen her that Christmas. How could someone be happy and alive one second, and then gone? It didn’t make sense to me.

Learning to Let People In

What followed was a whirlwind of action. Out of nowhere, what seemed like the entire Sri Lankan community of London (and sometimes further) appeared in my house. Having been born and raised in England, I had grown up with a sense of individualism which clashed with the collectivism my parents grew up with.

I was overwhelmed at first, feeling a sense of intrusion and overwhelm when I was still trying to process what had happened. In those first days our house was a rotating door of aunties and uncles I’d either never met or only met in passing. Eventually, I let myself lean in and be cared for in a way I’d never needed to before. As in most South Asian cultures, Sri Lankans show love through food. Our fridge and freezer suddenly overflowed with Tupperware filled with every meal you could ever think of. One of my aunties realised that my brother loved Sago Pudding, a classic Tamil dish. Every time she visited she would bring a freshly cooked batch for him – and a nut free version for me. Remembering small details like this and taking the burden of decision making away from us was how the community showed us we weren’t alone.

To this day I look back with so much gratitude for those people who held us up when things were falling apart. Now I try to show up for others in my community going through hard times in any way I can. I know first hand how much a small act of kindness, or remembering someone’s favourite comfort food, can keep a person going.

It’s for this reason that I decided to start volunteering with Cruse at the end of last year. Cruse offers something I know firsthand is invaluable: Community. It provides a safe, non-judgemental space where people can speak honestly about loss and be heard.

The most wonderful time of the year – but not for everyone

Ask anyone who’s grieving: death anniversaries are brutal. With my mum’s anniversary falling during the festive period, I’ve found the lead-up particularly challenging over the past few years.

Inbetweenmas used to be my favourite time of year. I lived for Christmas party season, but now it doesn’t hit the same. I remember attending a Christmas party last year and feeling completely out of place among all the festive cheer. Being surrounded by almost oppressive messaging about joy and merriment only made my sadness feel more obvious.

It often feels unacceptable to be unhappy or dislike Christmas without being labelled a Scrooge—but Christmas isn’t joyful for everyone. For a long time, I was convinced I’d never enjoy the festive season again. I once spoke to a friend who’d lost a parent over Christmas, and he said it got better for him when he had kids. I remember thinking Do I really have to wait that long to feel happy again?

Thankfully, this year I’ve managed to find joy in the season again—even looking forward to Christmas. I’m still not a fan of Christmas parties, but I can take comfort in mulled wine, terrible Hallmark movies, and spending time with family and friends.

Not just surviving anymore

For a long time I didn’t feel like I was really living life, I was in pure survival mode just trying to get through the next day, then week, then month. My whole body was in fight or flight mode. I couldn’t differentiate between actual danger and a minor inconvenience. Three years on I’m proud to say I’m no longer just surviving – I’m living. I travelled all over the world last year, experiencing things I never thought I would and couldn’t be prouder of myself. Grief will always be with me, but it’s no longer the headline of my life.

I don’t villainise my grief anymore, instead I accept it as part of my life. I know now that grief is fluid, and while I will have bad days I can now trust that the good days will follow soon. I don’t like saying that I’ve moved on because I don’t think you ever can. But what I can say is that I’m moving forward, and that’s something.