Category: Grief

Categories
Grief Grief & Hope Music and Grief

The Light On in the Kitchen: A Person‑Centred Reflection on Music, Grief, and the Places That Hold Us

I always have music on when I’m doing counselling admin. It’s just part of how I work. But it’s more than background noise it’s a companion. A nudge. A reminder. A doorway into memories I didn’t plan on visiting that day.

Some songs don’t just play.

They interrupt.

They stop you mid‑sentence, mid‑email, mid‑life.

They pull you somewhere else entirely.

Sometimes they lift you like the moments where I’m suddenly stood in the kitchen, deodorant can in hand, performing like I’m on a West End stage. No audience. No spotlight. Just me, the music, and whatever emotion has decided to show up. Those moments feel silly and joyful and alive.

And then there are the songs that drop you straight into memory.

Recently, songs like The Climb (originally Miley Cyrus, but Jessi Alexander’s version hits differently), Remember Me Beautiful (Brandy Clark), and Love That Makes a Cup of Tea (Gretchen Peters) have done exactly that. They’ve taken me straight back to my mam not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in the small, everyday ways grief tends to work. The kind of memories that sit quietly until something wakes them.

And Love That Makes a Cup of Tea brings me right back to something very Yorkshire because here, everything can be softened with a hug, a brew, and a biccie. It’s practically a coping strategy. A cultural reflex. A way of saying “I see you” without needing any fancy words.

That’s how my mam loved people. Through the kettle. Through food. Through the kitchen the hub of the house. The place where warmth lived. The place where I’d sit pretending not to listen while she and her best friend talked about life.

Even the things that annoyed me as a teenager have become precious.

Like the tap on the boiler pipes that ran through my bedroom wall  her way of saying tea was ready or I was needed to dry up. I’d roll my eyes then. Now? I’d give anything to hear that tap again. It’s funny how grief turns irritations into heirlooms.

As my life has shifted, I’ve found myself recreating what she built. Not consciously. Not as a tribute. Just naturally through baking, cooking tea, chatting with friends at the kitchen tablet, leaving the light on, and playing music that pulls me into memory. My kitchen has become a place she would love. And a place where I feel close to her.

And that’s exactly why Light On in the Kitchen (Ashley McBryde) hits so deeply. Because our kitchen wasn’t just a room it was always open. The light was always on. Someone was always ready to put the kettle on, pull out a chair, and let you talk (or not talk) until you felt a bit more yourself. It was the place you went when you needed comfort, or company, or just to be near someone who loved you without needing you to explain anything.

Those two songs feel like they’re singing about the same thing:

the quiet kind of love that happens in kitchens,

the kind that doesn’t shout,

the kind that shows up with a mug in hand,

the kind that keeps the light on so you know you’re welcome.

The Therapy Bit, But Not the Textbook Version

I could talk about the core conditions. I could talk about congruence and unconditional positive regard. But honestly? You’ve heard that before. I’ve said it before. It’s important, but it’s not the whole story.

Here’s the part that matters to me the part I see in my own grief and in the people I work with:

Healing often happens in the places where your memories live.

Not in the theory.

In the lived experience.

For me, that place is the kitchen.

For someone else, it might be a garden, a song, a smell, a chair, a routine.

Person‑centred counselling isn’t just about the relationship between counsellor and client. It’s about helping people reconnect with the parts of themselves that grief, trauma, or life has made them forget. It’s about giving someone space to explore their own meaning not the meaning the world tells them they should have.

And meaning is rarely found in the big moments.

It’s found in the tap on the pipes.

The smell of baking.

The song that makes you stop mid‑task.

The light left on in the kitchen.

The Songs That Became Part of My Grief Story

Curtain Call (Nashville Cast) the first time I heard it, I couldn’t listen without crying. It felt like my mam was singing it to me. Her final goodbye.

Now? I can sing it. I can imagine her singing it with me. That shift didn’t happen because I “moved on.” It happened because I let myself feel what I felt until it softened.

Sanctuary (Nashville Cast) that’s what her kitchen was. That’s what mine is becoming. A place where people can breathe.

Light On in the Kitchen (Ashley McBryde) this one hits deep. It’s everything my mam did without ever saying it. The welcome. The safety. The warmth. The quiet “I’m here.”

A Mother Like Mine (The Band Perry) the gratitude, the ache, the legacy. The way her love still shapes me.

These songs aren’t just music.

They’re memory.

They’re connection.

They’re grief doing what grief does — teaching you how to carry love forward.

If You’re Reading This and Thinking About Therapy

If any of this resonates  the music, the memories, the grief, the kitchen, the longing for the tap on the pipes you’d give anything to hear again you’re not alone.

Therapy isn’t about fixing you.

It’s about giving you space to explore your story.

Your memories.

Your grief.

Your meaning.

Your version of the kitchen light.

If you’d like to talk, I’ll leave the light on.

Take Care, Nicole x

 

Categories
Grief Parasocial Grief, Dolly Parton, Hayden Panettiere Person Centred Counselling

What Would Dolly Do? Finding Strength in Shared Grief

Our lives can change so quickly: work, family, even the shopping delivery offering substitutions. Most of these changes we can deal with because they’re tangible, sitting right in front of us.

But what happens when something in our world shifts emotionally, when we feel grief for someone we didn’t personally know? Sometimes that kind of loss can stop us in our tracks and make us think, “Well, how the heck do I deal with this then?”

The world has felt great loss recently. Dolly Parton and Hayden Panettiere have made a massive imprint on millions of people around the world, not only through their work but through their beliefs and the way they lived.

Hayden was also open about her personal struggles, including postnatal depression, addiction, and recovery. Speaking candidly about the challenges she faced and her journey toward healing. Her honesty reminded many that even those who shine brightly can face darkness, and that vulnerability is a form of strength. 

Grief doesn’t differentiate between knowing or not knowing someone personally. We can feel great loss when a person has impacted our lives, even if that connection wasn’t direct. Feeling grief for someone you don’t know is absolutely okay. If someone has touched your world and they’re no longer here, or have stopped doing the thing that brought you joy, that’s completely valid.

My Own Reflections

I’ve been particularly saddened by the deaths of Dolly and Hayden. My mam was a great fan of Dolly and was inspired by her incredible work, not only for her community but for the world through the Imagination Library. Dolly also gave back to her hometown, opening Dollywood and Dolly Parton’s Stampede Dinner Attraction, places I was privileged to visit with my mam and dad.

While reading about Dolly, I discovered she had spent time in Rotherham when launching the Imagination Library in the UK. It felt comforting to know she had walked the same streets I now call home. Her music, humour, business mind, and one-liners will forever inspire me, and I’ll keep asking myself, “What would Dolly do?”

Hayden’s character, Juliette Barnes, in Nashville, her sass, her struggle with identity, and her love for music,  drew me in. Since her passing, her co-stars have shared stories of her laughter and talent. Listening to the show’s music now hits differently. I realised I was grieving for someone I didn’t know, yet felt I did through her character. It was a strange feeling, one I wanted to explore.

The Knot of Grief

Grief can sometimes feel like a big knot, like when you put your earphones down and come back to find them tangled. Annoying, right? You sit and patiently unpick the knots, feeling frustration, anger, and confusion. But once they’re untangled, there’s relief you can listen again, and those feelings fade until the next time they knot themselves up.

We might grieve for someone we don’t personally know because of the impact they had on our world, because we know how it might affect someone we love, or because our grief for someone close intertwines with grief for someone we didn’t know but admired.

Grief has no limits or boundaries. It’s how we unpick it, reflect, and work through it that helps us make sense of what we’re feeling.

Rainbows and Rain

Dolly once said, “If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.” That quote, and Kacey Musgraves’ song Rainbow, helped me through my grief when my mam passed. The rain felt like my grief: sometimes just spitting, other times torrential. But at the end of each storm, whether moments or weeks later, I’d see the rainbow, the hope that “It’ll all be alright.”

At a recent concert, Kacey dedicated that song to Dolly. It felt like a coming together of my grief for my mum and for Dolly, a reminder that grief is a funny old thing, and mine is something I’m learning to understand and respect.

Understanding Grief for People We Don’t Personally Know

Psychologists call this parasocial grief, the sadness we feel when someone we’ve never met, like a celebrity or fictional character, dies or experiences hardship. It’s a recognised emotional response that stems from empathy, shared values, and the comfort their presence brings to our lives.

Research published in the Journal of Social and Personal Relationships explains that parasocial bonds activate similar emotional pathways to real-life relationships. When someone we admire passes away, our brains respond as though we’ve lost a friend — because, in a way, we have.

Other studies highlight that this grief can be stronger when the person represents hope, resilience, or creativity, qualities we see in ourselves or aspire to. In those moments, the loss feels symbolic, touching something deeply personal.

So if you find yourself grieving for someone you didn’t personally know, it’s not strange or misplaced. It’s a reflection of your capacity for connection and compassion, a reminder that grief isn’t just about proximity, but about meaning.

Finding Comfort

When life feels tough or your grief feels heavy, know that you’re not alone. In moments like these, the whole world feels heavy too. Even though it’s sad, it reminds us that we’re connected, that others are remembering what Dolly, Hayden, or someone else meant to them.

It might be comforting to sit quietly, light a candle, and just be.

If you’d like to explore what your grief means to you, please feel free to message me and book an initial assessment.

A Message of Strength

Keep thinking “What would Dolly do?” and when the world gets a little heavy, channel your inner Juliette Barnes and shout, “Don’t put dirt on my grave just yet!”

Because that’s not just a lyric, it’s a declaration. It’s saying I’m still here. I’m still fighting, still healing, still finding my way through the storm. Grief may knock us down, but it doesn’t get to keep us there. Like Dolly’s rainbow after the rain and Juliette’s fire on stage, it reminds us that even in our hardest moments, we can rise again.

Take care,

Nicole x

Categories
Change, Anxiety Grief Grief & Hope Widows Fight

I Stand With Widows Fight: Grief, Friendship, and the Call for Change

I never thought that when I was sat in my bedroom as a child that my path would lead me to becoming a person‑centred counsellor specialising in grief and loss. Back then, I imagined myself as a pop star or performing on the West End. Life has a way of surprising us, sometimes gently, sometimes painfully.

I certainly didn’t have on my bingo card losing my mum at 30. I was already on the road to becoming a counsellor when she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, but her illness changed everything. It shaped the direction I went in and helped me discover the work I was meant to do.

Also not on my close friend Holly’s bingo card was losing her husband, Andy, to cancer just four years after getting married. Holly and Andy have a beautiful daughter, April, who lost her dad. Life changed forever for both of them. Holly now wears many hats just to keep life moving, and I saw, and still see, the struggles that come with losing the person you expected to spend the rest of your life with.

It was Holly who first told me about the campaign she was involved in, fighting to change the support the Government offers to those who have lost a loved one. I had no idea that bereavement support had drastically changed just months before my own mum passed in 2017. Holly spent time educating me on the financial struggles people were facing, the reality that many cannot afford life insurance, and the fact that the Government had reduced long‑term support to just 18 months. I mean, who can rebuild their life in 18 months when everything has changed for an entire family?

I felt sadness. I felt anger. And I felt grief for the people experiencing this. It made me reflect on my own world, how different things could have been for my family had myself and my brother been younger. The more I learned, the more I understood why Holly and so many others were fighting.

What I saw in Holly, and in the people behind Widows Fight, was a group channelling their pain, their exhaustion, and their love into something bigger: a fight for change so that bereaved families are not left to struggle alone.

Widows Fight: Why the Campaign Exists

Widows Fight is a grassroots movement led by widows, widowers, and bereaved families who believe the current bereavement support system is unfair and inadequate. Their petition reached enough signatures for Parliament to consider a debate, which is a huge achievement for a community‑led campaign.

What support looks like now (post‑April 2017)

Bereavement Support Payment replaced all previous benefits. It provides:

For parents with children:

  • £3,500 lump sum
  • £350 per month for 18 months
  • Total: £9,800

For those without children:

  • £2,500 lump sum
  • £100 per month for 18 months
  • Total: £4,300

After 18 months, support stops completely.

What support looked like before April 2017

Families received:

Bereavement Payment:

  • £2,000 lump sum

Widowed Parent’s Allowance:

  • Around £108 to £115 per week

Paid until the youngest child finished full‑time education

  • Often 10 to 15 years of support, not 18 months.

Bereavement Allowance / Widow’s Pension:

  • Weekly payments
  • Continued until State Pension age
  • Available even without children

The old system recognised that grief and financial instability last years, not months.

Why Widows Fight matters

The campaign is fighting for:

  • Longer support
  • Fairer payments
  • Recognition of widows without children
  • Support that reflects the cost of living
  • A compassionate approach to bereavement

Their message is simple:

Bereavement is hard enough. Financial fear should not be added to it.

A Person‑Centred Perspective

As a counsellor, I sit with people in their grief. I see the confusion, the exhaustion, the fear, and the overwhelming responsibility that falls on one parent’s shoulders. Person‑centred counselling is built on empathy, unconditional positive regard, and meeting people exactly where they are. It recognises that grief is not linear, not predictable, and certainly not something that can be “sorted out” in 18 months.

Nearly eight years after losing my mum, I still have moments where the grief feels unexpectedly raw. That is the reality of loss. It ebbs and flows, and it does not fit into tidy timelines or Government frameworks. If grief can still catch me off guard after all this time, it is even clearer why expecting widows and single parents to rebuild their lives within 18 months is unrealistic and unfair.

Grief affects the ability to work, to parent, to think clearly, to make decisions, and to function. When financial pressure is added, it becomes a second trauma layered on top of the first.

Widows Fight is not just about money.

It is about dignity.

It is about giving families space to breathe.

It is about allowing grief to be processed without panic.

It is about compassion in policy.

My Pride in Holly, and a Call to Action

Recently, Holly shared her story publicly, speaking about Andy, April, and the reality of widowed parenting. In her interview, she said she hoped Andy would be proud of the work she is doing, and I know he would be. Like me, Holly has developed a dark sense of humour that helps her get through moments that can feel extremely dark and lonely. It is something many grieving people quietly lean on, a way of finding small pockets of relief in situations that feel impossibly heavy. Her courage is helping the campaign gain visibility, with local media sharing the experiences of widowed parents who are fighting for fairer support. Every interview, every shared story, and every moment of honesty helps build the momentum needed for change.

I have such an overwhelming amount of pride seeing the journey Holly has taken. Her strength, her love, and her true grit have helped get this campaign heard in Parliament. In an ideal world, we would not be fighting for this type of change, because we would much rather be sat next to our loved ones. But Holly and her comrades have taken their emotions and used them for the greater good, fighting for support that will not fix everything, but will take the edge off and give families a bit more stability during the hardest moments of their lives.

Widows Fight regularly share ways people can help on their social media platforms, including Facebook and Instagram. They have a fully drafted letter that supporters can send to their local MP, along with clear guidance on how to do it. Their pages also share the voices and experiences of widowed parents, helping to build understanding and momentum. The campaign is even in talks with a human rights lawyer, showing just how committed they are to exploring every possible avenue for change. Following their social media is one of the easiest ways to stay informed, get involved, and support the movement.

If you feel moved by Holly’s story, or by the thousands of families navigating grief and financial fear at the same time, you can help. Many supporters are writing letters to Parliament sharing their own experiences of loss, or simply expressing why they believe bereavement support should be fairer. If you would like to add your voice, you can contact Widows Fight directly for the address to send your letter to. They will guide you, support you, and welcome your contribution. Every story strengthens the call for change.

Grief is universal. Support should be too.

In my counselling room, I sit with people in their grief and meet them exactly where they are, and I stand with campaigns like Widows Fight in the hope that families can heal with compassion, stability, and without the added fear of financial hardship.

Take Care, Nicole x

Ethical Disclaimer
This blog reflects my personal views and experiences. It is separate from my work with clients, where I always meet each person exactly where they are, without expectation, judgement, or influence from my own story.

 

Categories
Change, Anxiety Community Grief Person Centred Counselling

Back Before Everything Became Automatic: Finding Stillness in a Fast World

Something that has been playing on my mind for a while is how instant everything has become. If we want an answer, we Google it. If we need therapy, we can speak to an online counsellor within minutes. Some people even turn to TikTok therapists or ask ChatGPT for guidance. We’re surrounded by instant opinions, instant advice, instant solutions. And while these things can offer ideas or reassurance, they can’t replace the slower, deeper process of sitting with ourselves, noticing what we feel, and understanding what those feelings mean.

I’ve also been thinking about how the power of CBT comes in when we allow ourselves to sit with what we’re feeling. Not rushing to fix it, not searching for the quickest answer, but gently noticing our thoughts and emotions and what they’re trying to tell us. This actually aligns so closely with the work I do as a person‑centred counsellor creating space to explore, rather than pushing for a solution. I’ll be honest, I’ve found this difficult at times in my own life. There have been moments where I’ve wanted the answer immediately or wanted something to take the discomfort away. But sitting with myself, even when it’s uncomfortable, has taught me so much more than any instant answer ever could.

And although I miss the waiting and the anticipation, I also find it hard to sit with it at times. Just because something is difficult doesn’t mean it isn’t wise or healthy. Sometimes we need to sit within the unknown to feel what it’s like not to have the answer yet, not to know what comes next, and to let things unfold organically. It’s uncomfortable, and I’m not immune to that discomfort. But I’m learning that the unknown has its own lessons, its own pace, and its own quiet wisdom.

I’ve had a lot of time to reflect lately, and while driving the other day Automatic by Miranda Lambert came on. It really made me miss having to wait being patient having the time to decide whether the thing I absolutely must have is actually something I need in my life.

Person‑centred counselling invites us to be in the moment, to get to know ourselves as we are right now. That song made me reflect on my past and how much I miss some of the simplicities of being a young adult. How would it feel to go back to those times? To not have same‑day delivery? To flick through the Argos catalogue, circle the thing we wanted, write the code on the little slip, and wait our turn to see if it was in stock. I miss that small ritual. I wonder if I’m on my own in that, or whether you feel something similar.

Life felt slower when things weren’t instantaneous. There was more community. Now so much of our communication happens through email, Zoom, or text. I’m not saying one way is better than the other having things at our fingertips can be incredibly useful but I’m noticing the difference.

In the counselling room I encourage clients to slow down and reflect on their thoughts and feelings in the moment. Slowing down during anxiety or difficult times can help us understand what’s really going on for us. Taking things gently and gradually can bring longer‑term comfort. It reminds me of waiting in line at Argos as a child for a toy I’d saved up for, only to hear it was out of stock and I’d have to wait for the next delivery. Patience is something I’ve learned to appreciate sometimes through gritted teeth and a strained smile and I often see similar emotions and explorations in the counselling room. It’s a space I feel extremely privileged to be in.

All of this reflection brought me back to grief. Grief isn’t always about losing a person. It can be about anything we miss or struggle to accept has changed. I truly miss parts of my world I no longer have access to, or ways of living that have simply moved on. I miss writing letters and waiting for a response. I miss the landline ringing and everyone wondering who it might be for. The magic of waiting and wondering seems to have faded, replaced by the magic of how quickly things arrive.

What I keep coming back to is the pace of the counselling room, the slowing, the softening, the moment a client relaxes into the chair. The beauty of patience, wonder, and quiet magic when someone begins to see their hard work supporting them outside the room.

There’s something about Automatic that stayed with me long after the song finished. Not the words themselves, but the feeling that gentle reminder of a time when life unfolded at a slower pace, when waiting was part of the rhythm rather than something to avoid. It nudged me to notice what I miss, what I value, and what I want to carry forward.

Person‑centred counselling offers that same kind of slowing.
 A space where nothing has to be instant.
 A space where you can arrive exactly as you are.
 A space where your pace is the right pace.

I see the magic of that when I work with clients the way someone softens into the chair, the way their breathing steadies, the way understanding grows slowly, quietly, in its own time. It’s a privilege to witness that kind of patience and courage.

So as the world continues to speed up, I’m choosing to honour the moments that ask to be taken gently. To wait in the queue. To print the photos. To sit with myself. To welcome the parts of life that aren’t automatic at all.

And perhaps, as you read this, you might take a moment to notice what you miss what you long for, what you’d like to reclaim, or where you might welcome a little slowness back into your own life.

Sometimes the most meaningful changes grow in the waiting.

And if you have a love for music, are curious about what inspired this reflection, or simply enjoy discovering new songs, I encourage you to give Automatic a listen. It might stir something in you too.

Take Care, Nicole x

Categories
Christmas Grief Grief & Hope

The Weight Christmas Can Bring

When I think of Christmas prior to 2017, I immediately think of being back at home, so excited for the “Family Hamper” to arrive, and then waiting for everyone to be home so we could open it together and see what was inside.
 I remember going to see The Muppets Christmas Carol with my dad and brother, hearing the Salvation Army Brass Band playing carols in the town centre, watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, and having the whole family round on Christmas Day.
 I could honestly write a whole blog just on the warm and lovely memories I have of the build-up to Christmas and the day itself.

I also remember the harder times, when I felt pulled between going out with friends or spending time with family.

Life changed for us as a family in August 2017 when my mam passed away. Life as I knew it changed forever.
 As time went on, I found myself surrounded by twinkling lights, Hallmark films, laughter, love, and happiness. My mam loved Christmas, so her absence was and still is greatly missed during this season (and always).

I believe that events that happen annually, like Christmas and birthdays, can bring a new wave of grief each year. Although we’re told that time is a healer, from my own personal experience, that’s not the case when it comes to losing someone you love.

The First Christmas Without Mam

If I could have gone to sleep or just skipped the first Christmas without Mam, I absolutely would have taken that option.
 The pressure to put on a “brave face” was really felt, and I’m sure my family felt the same too.

We spent Christmas at my brother and sister-in-law’s house, a place where we’d shared many happy memories together.
 After opening gifts, I took a moment to myself. While showering, I found myself talking out loud to my mam. I told her I was struggling and didn’t know how I was going to get through the rest of the day.
 As I reached for the shampoo, I happened to glance at the name on the bottle. It read, “Bee Strong.”

I laughed when I saw it. I absolutely believe this was a message from my mam, offering comfort and support in any way she could.
 Although the sadness and weight of loss didn’t disappear, I felt comforted knowing she was around us, not in person but in spirit. The day felt that bit easier, and I felt I’d been given permission to try and enjoy it.

Even though the day was a constant reminder that someone so important was missing from the family table, I felt comforted knowing Mam was still with me, just in a different way now. And somehow, that made things feel okay.

The Nature of Grief It Comes in Waves

I smiled when I came up with this title for this section. In my mind, I said, “Wave? More like tsunami.”

One thing I’ve learned from my own experience of loss is that grief isn’t a straight line. The stages of grief can give us an idea of what we might feel, but the reality is far messier. For me, it definitely wasn’t straightforward.

Imagine a shoreline with calm, gentle waves and the soothing sound of the sea. Then suddenly, a huge wave crashes in and takes you by surprise. That’s what grief feels like to me. It creeps up unexpectedly and can completely take you off guard.

Julia Samuel talks about this in her book This Too Shall Pass, describing how grief isn’t linear and can come in waves. I absolutely felt that on Christmas Day. One moment we were pulling crackers, and the next I was overwhelmed with sadness, missing my mam’s homemade stuffing balls.

That feeling didn’t magically disappear on Boxing Day. I still experience waves of grief now, even eight years later. Just like the sea, when the waves roll in, they bring things up from the seabed, feelings, memories, and moments that you might not have seen or felt for a long time.

The Stages of Grief

Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s model, the Stages of Grief, describes what we might experience during loss. Although this blog focuses on the loss of a loved one, these stages can also apply to other types of loss such as a job, a friendship, a relationship, or even a sense of identity. Change itself can bring grief.

Denial: “This can’t be happening.”
 A sense of disbelief or shock that helps buffer the initial pain.

Anger: “Why is this happening? It’s not fair.”
 Anger can be directed at people, situations, or even the person who died. It’s a natural response to feeling powerless and hurt.

Bargaining: “If only I had done this…”
 A stage filled with “what ifs” and “if onlys.” It’s a way of trying to regain control when everything feels uncertain.

Depression: Deep sadness and withdrawal.
 The reality of the loss sets in, and emotions can feel heavy or overwhelming.

Acceptance: “This has happened, and I can find a way to live with it.”
 Acceptance doesn’t mean being “over it.” It’s about acknowledging the loss and learning to live alongside it.

What I learned pretty quickly is that grief isn’t linear. Everyone’s experience is different, even if you’re grieving the same person or situation.

I skipped denial and spent months feeling angry at the world, myself, even my mam. How dare she leave me? Some days I found acceptance with a sprinkle of anger. Other days I felt nothing. Even now, I still move in and out of these stages, maybe not for as long, but it still happens.

This isn’t a race to get to the end of the stages. In my experience, that’s not how it works. It’s about learning to live again with the loss, giving it space, time, and respect.

I’m not sure I’ve fully accepted that Mam isn’t here anymore. Maybe that’s because I still feel her in other ways, in rainbows, in sunrises, in the smell of her perfume, or even in that shampoo bottle on Christmas Day.

When Christmas comes around, I’m reminded that grief doesn’t stick to dates or seasons. It sneaks up when you least expect it, in a song, a smell, or while you’re laughing with loved ones. That first Christmas without her felt like a wave I couldn’t outrun. Even now, there are moments that catch me off guard. Over time though, I’ve realised those waves are really just love showing up in a different way, little reminders that she’s still around, just not how she used to be.

Finding Meaning and Continuing Bonds

Noticing the message my mam was sending me on Christmas Day in 2017 was a turning point. It made me pause and reflect, to recognise my strength, my journey, and the amazing people around me who offered love and support. They helped me maintain that continued bond with my mam.

I truly believe she was showing me that she’s still present. She just can’t send messages or give hugs in the same way anymore. I just have to look a little harder to notice the love she’s still sending.

I also like to think she has a bit of FOMO, fear of missing out, so she has no choice but to stay present with us.

Seeing her message, “Bee Strong,” reminded me that our bond wasn’t broken. Her love for me is still here. She’s still on my team, and that presence is enough.

Time Isn’t a Healer

I’d love to tell you that time is a healer, but honestly, I don’t believe it is. Time gives us space to reflect, to learn, and to find new ways to cope, but it doesn’t take the pain away. There isn’t a magic moment when the grief fades. Sadly, no Dumbledore appears on the first anniversary to wave a wand and heal your heart.

What time does is allow us to adjust. To stop reaching for the phone to share something, though I still do that even now. To find a new rhythm. To start living again, even with the ache.

I’ve learned that life doesn’t stand still, and if we want to keep living, we have to find our own way to move forward. For me, that meant laughter, lots of it. I’ve developed a dark sense of humour, and it’s helped me more than I can say. Finding joy and humour, even in the darkness, has been a big part of my healing.

This ties in beautifully with Person Centred Counselling, acceptance, empathy, and finding ways to keep growing into the best version of ourselves, even through grief. Julia Samuel talks about this too, describing themes of compassion, acceptance, and growth through loss.

Closing Reflection

With the support of my partner, amazing family, and wonderful friends, I’ve learnt to find joy in Christmas again. I love the lights, the warmth, the carols, the cheesy films, and of course, the food and drink. To sound a little cheesy, and honestly, who doesn’t love cheese at Christmas, the true meaning of this season for me is family, friends, remembering those who can’t physically sit at the table, and continuing the traditions they created.

Christmas will always carry a little ache for me, and I’m learning that that’s okay. Grief can feel like love with nowhere to go, but I’ve found that love still finds a way to reach us. Maybe through a song, a smell, or even a shampoo bottle whispering, “Bee Strong.”

So that is how I want to sign off this blog, during a time of year that can feel difficult, strained, and triggering. Bee Strong, and Bee Kind to yourself.

Categories
Anxiety Change, Anxiety Grief Moving Home

New Beginnings and Safe Spaces: The Anxiety of Change and How Person-Centred Counselling Helps

When I bought my home in 2008, I imagined I’d be here forever. And yet, at times, I absolutely hated living here. It brought on all sorts of anxieties and worries the kind that seem to come with adulthood.

Even as a counsellor, I’ve sat with anxiety , and I think that’s part of what makes my work honest. It’s through those personal experiences that I can truly sit alongside clients as they explore their own.

My home holds so many stories. It’s now the only physical place my family has left where my mam spent time  since my dad moved out of the home they shared, and my brother and sister-in-law have moved on from theirs too. It’s been the backdrop to laughter, tears, career changes, heartbreaks, new connections, and long hours sat on the step on my landing — my thinking space.

Over the years, I grew up in this home. I changed. I retrained as a counsellor, built deeper relationships, and started showing up more fully as myself. For a long time, I just called it a house I hadn’t formed a relationship with it. Slowly, though, I began to shape it into something of my own. It became more than a roof over my head. It became a safe space. A place where I could enjoy my own company and come home to myself.

Change Brings Up Feelings — And That’s Okay

So, why am I writing this now? Because I’m about to leave this home. It’s time for a new beginning — and with that comes excitement, sadness, anxiety, and a bit of wonder. Will I miss it? Absolutely. But I also feel ready. Ready to embrace change, feel the unknown fully, and step into whatever comes next.

This process reminds me of what often happens in the counselling room.

The Counselling Room as a Safe Space

In Person-Centred Counselling, the relationship we build together is the foundation. Much like how I slowly built a relationship with my home, clients often begin counselling unsure, guarded, maybe a little disconnected. But over time  with empathy, genuine presence (congruence), and unconditional positive regard, a sense of safety can grow.

The counselling space becomes somewhere to take off the masks, lay down the armour, and start exploring what’s underneath.

I often describe it like this: counselling is a place to examine the armour you’ve built up to survive life , to look at each piece, understand how it’s helped you, and gently decide whether you still need it. My home has been part of my armour. It’s protected me, nurtured me, and allowed me to grow into the person I am. And now, I feel ready to let it go ,because I’ve created that safety within myself.

That’s what I hope for everyone who steps into the counselling room. That, in time, they begin to feel safe in themselves, not just in the room. That no matter what changes around them, they carry something steady inside.

Change Is Not Linear, Neither Is Counselling

Counselling, like life, doesn’t follow a straight path. There are moments that feel like breakthroughs, and others that feel like steps backwards. As Paula Abdul sang (and yes, I do quote her sometimes), it’s two steps forward and two steps back.

But that’s okay.

Whether you’re experiencing anxiety, grief, or a life transition, Person-Centred Counselling meets you exactly where you are — without judgement, without pressure. Just a space to explore, to reflect, and to feel what needs to be felt.

Final Thoughts

Leaving this home is a big step, but it’s also a reminder: I’ve built a safe space within myself. That’s something I now carry with me — and something I want to offer to others.

If you’re navigating change, feeling unsettled, or simply want to reconnect with your authentic self, Person-Centred Counselling can support you. It’s not about fixing you , it’s about creating a space where you feel safe enough to be yourself, and from there, to grow.

Take Care

Nicole x

Categories
Change, Anxiety Grief Person Centred Counselling

Mixed Emotions and Positive Change: How to Process Life Transitions

Positive Change and Hidden Feelings

Have you ever received news that society tells you should have you cartwheeling with happiness — popping champagne, celebrating with friends and family — but instead felt something more complicated? You know deep down it’s what you want, yet there’s an overwhelming sense of, oh wow — my whole world is about to change.

I know I want this, but how much? Then your mind may begin catastrophising — urging you to stay in the familiar, keep to the easy routine, and avoid putting yourself in a vulnerable position. Why would you risk all of that? Our inner critic, or even imposter syndrome, often shows up when big life changes are presented to us.

It’s important to normalise this. We can feel both grateful for new opportunities and experience anxiety, doubt, or worry. Mixed emotions don’t mean we’re ungrateful — they mean we’re human.

A lot of my writing ideas come from things I have seen, read, or experienced myself. For example, my 9–5 job will be changing soon. I’m excited to return to a role I enjoy, but this comes with leaving my comfort zone, colleagues (some of whom are now good friends), and facing a two-hour round-trip commute. On top of that, I’ve also just sold the home I’ve lived in for 17 years (blog on this to follow) 

Right now, my life feels like a deck of cards tossed into the air — suspended mid-flight, waiting to land. Each card represents a different part of life in transition. At the same time, I feel like I’m holding the ingredients for a layered cake: each emotion — excitement, anxiety, sadness, pride — is a layer contributing to the whole experience of change.

The Emotional Layers of Change

Change often comes with many layers of emotion — much like baking a cake. Each layer adds something unique, creating a rich, complex experience:

  • Excitement: the sweetness of something new.

  • Anxiety: the bitter edge of uncertainty.

  • Sadness: the nostalgia of leaving routines, colleagues, friends, or familiar places.

  • Pride: the richness of knowing you’ve faced challenges and embraced growth.

Together, these layers might feel confusing, even overwhelming, but each one has a purpose. Like a cake, the layers combine to form a complete experience — one that is fuller and more textured than any single layer could be on its own.

This also connects to grief. Grief isn’t only about losing people — it can also involve saying goodbye to a chapter of our lives, a period of identity, or the comfort of a familiar home or routine. Just like the layers of a cake, each feeling — sadness, anxiety, excitement, pride — has its place and adds depth to the whole experience.

Why Mixed Emotions Can Feel Confusing

One of the most challenging parts of change is that society often expects constant joy. When sadness, doubt, or anxiety appear alongside happiness, we may feel guilty or “wrong.”

Using the cake metaphor, this can feel like tasting all the layers at once: the sweetness, the bitter, the richness — it can be confusing, even overwhelming. Yet each layer is meaningful and contributes to understanding ourselves and the situation.

Over time, I’ve realised these emotions are helpful. They are part of our mind’s way of assessing change — weighing risks, considering positives and negatives, and preparing us for what lies ahead. The inner critic or imposter syndrome can make this feel overwhelming, but the underlying process is natural and important.

All feelings are valid. Even when they seem contradictory, they provide insight into your experience and help you navigate change more mindfully.

Change, Growth, and the Person-Centred Counselling Room

In person-centred counselling, every individual’s response to change is recognised as unique. Carl Rogers described the actualising tendency — the innate capacity for growth and self-understanding. This means that even when we feel anxious or uncertain, there’s an inner resource already at work, guiding us.

The counselling room offers the conditions for this growth: empathy, congruence, and unconditional positive regard. Here, clients can:

  • Explore emotions at their own pace.

  • Understand and integrate conflicting feelings, layer by layer.

  • Feel truly heard without judgement or pressure.

Just as the layers of a cake combine to create something whole, counselling allows the layers of your emotional experience to be acknowledged, understood, and integrated — giving a sense of clarity and completeness, rather than confusion or pressure to “just be happy.”

Gentle Reflection To Close 

As I bring this writing to a close, I want to remind you (and perhaps myself) that mixed emotions around change are normal. They are part of being human. Working through them — whether through reflection, conversations with friends or family, or counselling — helps integrate these experiences in a healthy way.

Think of your emotional layers like a cake: each one is valid, each one contributes to the whole, and each one can teach you something about yourself.

A question to leave with you: What changes in your life have brought both excitement and sadness? How did you navigate these emotions?

If you’d like space to explore changes in your life at your own pace, I offer a safe, person-centred space at As Light As A Feather Counselling in Huddersfield where all feelings are valid and welcome.

Take care,
 Nicole 

Categories
Grief Person Centred Counselling Silence

Silence in Counselling: How Pausing Can Help Reduce Anxiety, Overthinking, and Support Healing

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Categories
Grief

Grief Beneath the Surface: Reflections on Titanic, the Titan Submersible, and How We Hold Space for Loss

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