Grief has a strange way of catching you off guard. We all know, somewhere deep down, that life does come to an end. But when someone you love dies suddenly, that knowledge means nothing. The world splits open in silence, and you’re left standing in the middle of it, trying to understand how everything can look the same when nothing is.
Poppy died from CPVT — a rare heart condition I didn’t even know existed. There was no warning, no long goodbye. Just an ordinary day that stopped being ordinary forever. The shock didn’t fade for months; it lingered quietly in the back of my mind, twisting itself into random things I did. I’ve never been good with grief — I don’t think I ever will be. I’ve lost people before: my friend Emma, who passed away from leukaemia when I was young, and my grandparents, who were elderly and ill. But losing a friend at the age of 20 when I'm older and can understand death a lot better compared to when I was young, a death that comes out of nowhere, is hard, and Poppy’s death was different. It came without reason, without time to prepare, without a goodbye.
We grew up together through school and sixth form, and honestly, I don’t think I would have made it through without her which might seem cliché to say but I do truly mean it. We studied Classics together for six years, which is what led me to study Ancient History at university now. Sixth form was a hard time for me, for a lot of reasons, but Poppy was always there — with her quiet reassurance and her warmth. When she died, it felt like the comfort she’d given me through that time vanished too. The person who’d helped me through my hardest moments was suddenly gone, and with her went the strength she had helped me find.
People say grief comes in stages, but mine didn’t. It came in waves. Some days I felt almost normal; others, it hit me like hearing the news from her mum all over again. I tried everything — keeping busy, talking to friends, even ignoring it altogether — but nothing made it make sense. You can’t fix grief. You can only live through it.
Over time, I’ve learned that grief doesn’t disappear; it changes shape. It softens into something that will probably always be around. Some days it still catches me off guard — when I read something I’d have sent her, or when I picture what she’d be doing now. But those moments, painful as they are, remind me how lucky I was to have her at all.
The charity her incredible family set up — The Poppy Light Foundation — has become a beautiful way to keep her light alive. It supports young people with inherited cardiac conditions, and I love seeing the difference it’s making in her name.
Her death taught me that love doesn’t end when life does. It lingers — in memories, in stories, in the way we keep them close. I’ll always wish she was still here, but carrying her with me — in everything I do — is its own kind of continuation.
I miss you, Poppy. You were taken far too soon. You are forever young, forever beautiful, and I love you endlessly.
Grief is hard, trust me, I know, but it gets better, I promise.