Loss & Grief

21 min Still Here Sit or lie in whatever way lets your body feel held.

15 min When Someone Says Their Name Someone said it today, or yesterday, or sometime recently enough that the imprint of it is still pressed into you.

22 min Larger Now A gentle session for when joy arrives alongside grief and you don't know whether to trust it.

18 min Unseen A gentle session for grief that others don't see or make space for.

Session A Gentler Day For the days when grief feels less sharp, when guilt arrives alongside the quiet.

24 min Before and After A meditation for holding grief without trying to fix it.

Session Waves Grief doesn't follow a schedule, it arrives in waves.

13 min Grief at a Distance When loss arrives through a screen, across a timezone, from the wrong side of a border, grief folds inside grief, the goodbye your body never got to say.

14 min Sorting Their Things There is a drawer, a cupboard, a box you have been walking past.

12 min Unmarked Days Grief keeps a calendar you never agreed to write, anniversaries, last Tuesdays, birthdays that pass unnamed.

15 min Where They Sat A meditation on the rooms that hold absence, the chair angled to the window, the grooves in the carpet, the half-second scan for someone the room still expects.

18 min Ice on the Current This session is for the second spring after a loss, the moment when something inside begins, almost without permission, to lean towards life again, and the flinch that arrives with it.

12 min Anticipatory Anticipatory grief begins while the person you love is still here: breathing nearby, answering the phone, perhaps forgetting your name and remembering it again. This practice gives that long goodbye permission to be real, noticing where it lives in the body without asking it to lift. Love and grief are allowed to move side by side, held by a private vow for the time you still have together.

10 min Birthdays They Will Not Have A birthday approaches for someone who is no longer here, carrying the painful age they would have reached. The imagined years, unlit candles and quiet arithmetic of grief are held without needing to be resolved. A gentle way to meet the date with tenderness, allowing remembrance to take whatever shape it needs.

13 min Borrowed Sweater For a sweater lent by someone who has since died, and never given back. The practice slips it on in the mind, feels how the sleeves fit differently, and lets that small gap be a place where the bond carries on.

12 min Cards Still Arriving For the sympathy cards that keep arriving months after a loss, from people only just hearing the news. The practice sits beside the small stack on the side table, makes space for the ache of the late ones, and asks nothing of you about opening them.

12 min Caught Laughing For the laugh that escapes after a loss, and the guilt that follows on its heels. The practice stays with both and explores how a laugh shaped over a lifetime carries the people who taught it, so that laughing need not mean leaving them behind.

13 min Cleaning Out the Garage An unopened garage holds the shape of a life in tools, unfinished projects, labelled jars and a worn coat left hanging by the door. You can stand among these ordinary traces without sorting, finishing or deciding what comes next. Grief is allowed to move at its own pace, while everything remains exactly where it was.

10 min Driving Home Past the Hospital The road home takes you past the hospital, and your body still remembers the turning before your mind does. Lit windows, the old car park entrance and two particular streetlamps hold the grief of visits once made. Tonight, the road carries you beyond them, towards a familiar house and the ordinary truth of arriving home.

15 min Estrangement Has Its Own Weather There is a kind of grief no one schedules, and it keeps its own weather, moving through the week without forecast. It moves through the day the way a front crosses a county — quiet for a while, then suddenly everything at once.

15 min First Snow Without You The light went thin this morning, and you noticed it before you knew why. That particular hush, the one that settles over rooftops a moment before the first flake shows itself. Then it came, slow, almost shy, the way snow tries the air before committing to it.

15 min Forgetting, Then Remembering Some days, their name does not arrive with the morning. You make tea, open the post, answer the kettle's small click, and they are not there. Then later: a song, a coat in a shop, a stranger's laugh, and they are everywhere.

11 min Half a Coffee Grief can gather around the smallest unfinished things: half a coffee gone cold, a book left open, a jumper waiting on a chair. Sitting beside the cup without washing it, moving it or forcing it to mean more, the interruption is allowed its honest weight. What remains becomes a quiet record of an ordinary future once assumed, and of the love that still knows what was there.

12 min Photographs in Mid-Sentence There is a photograph you cannot quite face, and another your eye keeps drifting back to. Both caught them mid-sentence — the mouth open around a word the air never finished carrying. A moment they passed through without knowing it was the one that would stay behind, glossy, unmoving, kept.

16 min Relief and Grief, Together Grief leaves something out of its own telling, and you may be the one carrying that omission quietly in your chest tonight. Relief. Alongside the missing sits a quiet that arrived when the long shift ended, and the body remembers both at once.

17 min Slow Goodbye Some goodbyes unfold over months or years, returning in empty chairs, familiar songs and the reach for a second mug. Grief moves between absence and ordinary life, with no schedule and no demand for closure. What remains can be carried forward as a continuing bond, held differently but still present.

9 min Smaller Funerals Some losses pass without ceremony: a friendship that quietly thinned, a house left behind, a former version of yourself. Here, those unmarked goodbyes are given a private funeral, witnessed only by breath and silence. Nothing has to be solved or softened; each loss is simply named, carried and granted the dignity of being seen.

10 min Standing at Their Door A quiet doorway practice for the strange threshold between before and after a loss. Standing before a familiar closed door, you hold their name, notice grief’s answer in the body, and allow memory to pass through like light beneath it. Nothing must be opened or left behind; love can continue in the standing.

10 min Still in the Drawer A jumper remains folded in a drawer, unwashed, still carrying the faint scent and shape of the person who wore it. Sitting with this quiet linking object honours the honest ways grief keeps someone close. Whether the wool stays untouched, fades with time or is worn one day, there is no wrong way to love what remains.

15 min Talking to Them in the Car Lately, on the way home, a particular conversation has crept into the long quiet between one place and the next. Not at a graveside, not at a kitchen table — at the wheel of a car, somewhere between one familiar road and the next.

13 min Telling Someone Who Didn't Know Earlier today, perhaps yesterday, a stranger asked you the smallest, kindest question — and a door inside opened wider than they could have known. The till, the school gate, the seat beside yours on a train — somewhere ordinary, where the simple asking carried no weight at all.

11 min Voicemail Still Saved A saved voicemail can become one of grief’s quietest forms of keeping: a voice held somewhere in data, waiting without needing to be played. This gentle reflection stays with the objects, files and automatic rituals that preserve someone’s trace, making room for love that has become ordinary, faithful curatorship.

11 min Watering Their Garden Somewhere — perhaps a windowsill, perhaps a small patch behind the house — there are plants that knew their hands before they knew yours. You are about to give them water — that small, repeatable act is the whole of this practice.

10 min Wearing Their Watch For wearing the watch of someone who has died. Attention rests on the tick, the clasp and the cool weight of the case against the wrist, and on how the watch keeps its steady time on a new wrist, a way of carrying them into the day.

15 min Wedding Without a Father For the wedding day that holds both celebration and the aching absence of a father, this is a quiet place to let grief have its seat. Remember his face, his hands, the things he taught you about love, and carry something of him into the ceremony, the speeches and the dancing.

12 min What the Calendar Knows For the days when grief arrives before you know why. This quiet practice sits beside the body’s hidden calendar, the dates, seasons and small sensory shifts it remembers, and makes room for the heaviness without asking you to explain or fix it.

13 min What the House Remembers The house has been remembering them all this time, in the wood, in the wallpaper, in the worn brass of the latch. Quietly, without permission, without rest, without telling you what it was doing. It started the morning the latch caught for the last time, and the hallway did not hear that step again.

9 min What They Would Have Done Remember someone through one small, familiar action: a recipe, a route, a card, the way they made tea. Let the closeness and ache be there together, then choose the smallest real version you can carry into today.

13 min When the Dog Looks for Them For grieving alongside a dog who still looks for the person who is gone. The practice stays with the pause at the doorway and the empty chair, and recognises your own quieter searching, so neither of you is alone with it.

11 min When You Catch Yourself Reaching For the moments you reach for someone before remembering they are gone. Sit gently with the half-lifted phone, the extra cup, the name caught in your throat, and meet the body’s loyal remembering without shame.

12 min Where the Love Stays A scar that no longer bleeds is still a scar — and that is where this last morning of our ten days begins. A mark like this lives somewhere on you — softer now, paler, but never quite the colour of the skin around it.

11 min Words Left Mid-Air You stopped mid-sentence once, and the rest is still here, settling into rooms that knew the sound of your voice rising toward them. It was nothing momentous — not a confession, only the ordinary kind: a thought halfway out, a question rising at its end.