When I take time away from work, I often find myself drawn to stories that help me slow down and reflect. Recently, while browsing Netflix, I came across the documentary about the Titan submersible. Like many, I’ve long been captivated by the Titanic — its promise, its grandeur, and ultimately, its tragedy.

But what I didn’t expect was how this documentary would stir something much deeper — a quiet kind of grief, layered and unfolding. As a counsellor, I’m always curious about how certain stories awaken emotions we thought were long-settled.

What’s always struck me about the Titanic is the sharp contrast between the classes on board: the elegance of First Class, the community spirit below deck, and that haunting final image — the band playing as the ship went down. The music offered comfort amidst the chaos, a final act of connection.

As I watched the Titan story unfold, I realised this wasn’t just a documentary about a modern-day tragedy. It was a descent to a grave site — a place where over 1,500 lives were lost, where social class no longer mattered, where stories were frozen in time. And then, as history repeated itself in a different form, old grief met new grief.

Among those lost on the Titan were people united by hope, curiosity, and a deep connection to the Titanic’s story. Shahzada and Suleman Dawood, a father and son, shared a dream of seeing the ship’s resting place together. Paul-Henri Nargeolet, a French explorer, had dedicated much of his life to preserving its history. Hamish Harding was a seasoned adventurer passionate about historic milestones, and Stockton Rush, CEO of OceanGate, dreamed of making deep-sea exploration more accessible. Their journey was more than a quest for adventure — it was a search for meaning, connection, and something far larger than themselves.

There’s something haunting about watching people descend into the depths not just of the ocean, but of our collective memory. The wreckage of the Titanic holds more than twisted metal. It holds the weight of dreams lost, warnings unheard, and lives forever changed.

I was struck by how grief ripples. It touched not only the families left behind but also the employees and engineers who had invested their time, passion, and faith into the Titan project. For them, the loss went beyond life — it was the collapse of a vision. This kind of grief — quiet, complex, often invisible — deserves space too.

What struck me personally, while watching the documentary, was the connection to Wallace Hartley, the Titanic’s bandleader, who played with the Huddersfield Philharmonic Orchestra. Knowing this adds a quiet intimacy to the story—realising someone from a familiar local place became part of that haunting final performance. It’s a reminder that history isn’t always distant; sometimes, it lives right on our doorstep.

As the ship went down, survivors recalled hearing the hymn Nearer, My God, to Thee. That song, meant to comfort in the final moments, reminds me how — whether in music, memory, or conversation — we often reach for connection in the face of grief.

And grief, I’m reminded, doesn’t only come with the loss of a life. It can be the loss of belief in a dream, the weight of warnings unheeded, or the moment when history echoes into our present and touches something raw. Sometimes, a story like this doesn’t just inform — it awakens something old within us.

As a counsellor, I often sit with people navigating grief in its many forms. It isn’t always loud or obvious. It can be quiet, hidden, or long-buried. But it’s always real. And though it can feel heavy and isolating, grief also carries the potential for connection — both to others and to ourselves.

If this story stirred something in you, know you’re not alone. Grief can surface in unexpected ways, and sometimes just naming it is a step toward healing.

If you’d like a safe, supportive space to explore what’s on your mind, I offer person-centred counselling to help you navigate those feelings — whether they’re fresh or from long ago.

Take Care

Nicole