On the 19th of October, my nan passed. Honestly, it’s the hardest thing I have ever experienced. I’d never lost a grandparent before, and nothing really prepares you for the quiet absence that they leave behind.
When I think about my nan, my mind goes back to being a child. Sunny afternoons in the garden. She would play with my brother and me for hours, whether it was playing shopkeeper, ping pong or our own “family Olympics” each summer. And in the evenings, it was hot chocolate and a bedtime story, while the soft hum of Strictly drifted up the stairs. Those moments say everything about her: kind, patient, and always giving.
...a woman of remarkable depth and quiet power
But as I grew older, my understanding of her deepened. She became more than just the gentle figure of my childhood, but a woman of remarkable depth and quiet power. She loved reading, getting lost in a story (even reading the encyclopaedia cover to cover, which still amazes me). She was a runner, someone who kept herself moving, and on holidays she’d always be swimming – enjoying life in its simplest form.
She was also just completely her own person. A true beauty, not just in appearance but in spirit. I always think of the story of her cutting her hair short in Spain with my grandpa – an act of spontaneity that I’m not sure I would be brave enough to replicate now. That’s how I remember her: vibrant, decisive, and full of life. Those parts of her still inspire me more than I probably realise.
When the people we love pass ... They become woven into everything.
And then there was the love she shared with my grandpa. It was something really special – rare, even. It was the kind of love that shapes a family without ever showing itself off, but you can feel it in everything. The way he cared for her night and day through her Parkinson’s said so much about him. It wasn’t easy, but he was there through it all, by her side. Together, they’ve truly set a standard for the women in my family for what a true connection can look like over a lifetime.
In losing her, I realised something I didn’t understand before. When the people we love pass, they do not simply disappear. They become woven into everything. I see her in old photographs and familiar memories, of course. But also, in the small, unexpected details of everyday life. In the playhouse that still sits at the back of the garden. In rainbows. In holidays being celebrated to the absolute fullest. Even in the runners passing by. She’s still there, just in a different way.
And I feel her shaping my life, even now. What she went through with Parkinson’s was incredibly difficult, but it taught me something I’ll carry with me - to move our bodies, to exercise our minds while we are able. Not to take any of it, or anyone, for granted.
Love you, Nan, always.