A Mother’s Story of Sudden Loss

Trigger alert: this essay discusses sudden death.

On January 26, 2019, at 12:50 p.m., I was at Bunnings—Australia’s Home Depot—shopping for plants. It was a sliver of me time before my partner left for the night.

He was planning to meet friends in downtown Sydney. Since it was a long drive from our home, he intended to stay in the city and return the next day. He planned to leave at 1 p.m., and as I was still in the checkout line, I called to ask him to wait just a few more minutes so I could see him before he left. He said he would. We exchanged the obligatory “I love yous,” and the call ended.

Such simple moments in time—yet they would haunt me in the years to come.

I arrived home minutes later, but he had already gone.

I never got a chance to say goodbye.

He texted me when he arrived at his destination. All was good; he was having fun.

Then, at some point that early evening, the messaging stopped. A quiet worry crept in. A worry that was, as it turned out, entirely warranted.

At 7 a.m. the following morning, two policemen came to my home and, in a moment that felt like a scene from a movie, informed me that my partner was “deceased.” I won’t share more in this very public forum. Suffice it to say that his life ended sometime in the night—and my life as I knew it did too.

And our daughter lost her beloved father.

If hearing that your life partner is suddenly gone is not devastating enough, I realized—through the fog of shock—that I would have to relay the information to our daughter.

I sat her down by our pool, the same pool where only hours earlier she had been playing with her father, swimming without a care in the world, our home still filled with laughter.

I sat her down knowing that the words I was about to speak would rob her of her innocence and change her life forever.

All I could think to say was:

“Daddy is not coming home anymore.”

She bowed her head, and the world paused.

She said nothing. And I crumbled.

Nothing in life prepares you for that moment. All the sweetness of life—the joy, the laughter—was sucked into the vacuum of profound grief. That moment will never leave me. It does not get easier. It was a sledgehammer that shattered me, reverberating through every moment that followed.

And it changed the fabric of holidays forever.

No longer were holidays light or fun. They became overshadowed by the bitterness of loss. The laughter of past celebrations with my husband echoed hollowly in my mind.

Everything became forced. Thrust into the world as a single mother, holidays fell flatly and heavily upon me.

It took every ounce of energy to pretend, to try to be present for my daughter. Hollowness replaced joy. A walking ghost decorating a tree.

Now my daughter is older and spends holidays with friends, and at long last I feel liberated from the weight of expectations that do nothing but drain me. I release myself from holidays. I release myself from pretending.

And it is for that reason I share these words now, as we all enter the holly-jolly bustle of the season.

To those who find themselves in profound grief—I walk with you. I am there with you, just as all the grieving women who came before us.

I share your pain. I understand your burden. And I offer you the gift of release.

Give yourself permission to do only what you can—what feels right for you.

If that means sitting at home in sacred stillness, honoring your grief, then so be it.

I invite you, dear reader,  to think of your own communities and identify anyone who is grieving.

Please don’t call and ask them how they are. That question is too loaded, and it won’t bring forth the truth.

Please don’t ask them what they want. They want their Beloved back.

Instead, without asking and without expectation, leave a small surprise at their door:

a home-baked cake, groceries, bath salts, flowers.

Do not follow up. Do not ask if they received it.

Just leave it with Love.

And if you have a widow in your community with young children, give her the greatest gift of all: take the children out to play and give her a few precious hours for herself.

Wishing peace and stillness to all who need it this holiday season.