This piece began as a letter to a friend who had recently lost a parent.

It is what I felt I knew about grief at that time.

So, how did I feel when mum died?

Like I'd been kicked in the soul.

I'd lost my compass.

I’d lost my solace.

The one person that could make everything better, no matter how bad things got.

Well, things were pretty bad. Who on earth was going to help me through this?

Physically, I recall an awful, gut-wrenching despair, as if I'd swallowed my own heart, combined with an awful panic that it would never, ever resurface.

There was a numb ache, which allowed me to function, but not really feel like I was living.

Disappearing ground

You know that feeling you get when you're just nodding off to sleep and you suddenly feel like you’re falling? It’s called a hypnic jerk, I think.

It's as if the ground has disappeared from under your feet.

Every morning I would wake up and have just one moment of peace before that feeling returned.

Each time it did, it would make me stop short to know, with a sick newness, almost as though for the first time, that she was dead and that I had forgotten.

Many years on, the numbness and swallowed heart feeling have subsided, but the hypnic jerk still catches me off guard.

Every now and again, I'll be doing something mundane, when a scent, or an image, a flavour, or a piece of music, will throw up wave of memory that knocks the breath out of me and leaves me reeling.

That awful feeling as soon as I woke... that she was gone... Once I realised that I couldn’t get past it, it almost became a comfort.

Welcome familiarity

That period of holding that sadness each day kind of grounded me. It was painful, but it was familiar, and familiar was welcome.

That rawness seemed to be the kind of pain that was acceptable. The kind of pain that I knew and understood. I wasn’t ready for any variations.

I can remember feeling guilty for not being more public about my grief, or eloquent in expressing it.

It felt like a disservice to her.

How would people know I loved and missed her if I couldn’t show it? Would people think I’d forgotten?

I used to fantasize about wailing in the streets, screaming as tears rolled down my face. The kind, understanding gaze of strangers in place of the looks of sad-eyed, head-tilted concern that I resented.

What I hoped for was that this show could serve as a sort of purge or exorcism.

If I could express my grief more openly, I could speed up the process, get it all out of my system and move forwards. I’d be exhausted for a bit, sure, but then feel I’d normal again.

I couldn’t.

Of course, that was not the reality. I didn’t know what was going on, never mind being able to articulate it.

There was no guidance. No guide. Nobody sat me down and explained it to me. Looking back, I don’t think that anyone could have done.

I felt helpless.

A breakthrough

One day, there came a breakthrough. I woke up and my first thought was about how much I needed to pee and what I wanted for breakfast. Later that morning, I realised that I hadn't thought about my pain for at least a couple of hours and then a sense of guilt washed over me.

It was at that point I knew I had actually taken a step away from the grief that overwhelmed me. I was discovering the other parts of me again that meant I could live and not just function.

Later, I could go days and even weeks without thinking about her.

I used to feel guilty once I remembered, but I’m ok with it now. It's human.

More time passed and I gradually remembered to feel emotions other than suffering and pain.

The emptiness inside me began to sit alongside feelings of love from and for friends and family, fond memories.

For me, grief is accepting that something has happened, holding on to the knowledge of what you are missing and continuing to get up each day even though you can feel yourself irrevocably changed.

The loss is like an internal scar tissue which has taken away pieces of my heart. It still beats and pumps blood the way that it should, but its makeup has changed and that can't be undone.

I have learnt to love my scars. They are fundamental to who I have become.

Absence from physical life does not equal an absence of influence. I miss my mum hugely and think of her often. Nowadays, when I do, it's with a smile and a gratitude that she is part of me, death and all.

I promised myself that I will remember her and share that with others. I stand testament to all of the parts of her that live on in me.