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 ## ARRIVAL A sweater that was lent, never given, keeps a place somewhere in your home tonight. Maybe folded on a chair, maybe on a hanger that has stopped pretending to be temporary. You borrowed it once, on an evening the cold had sharpened past what the calendar promised.

12 min Cards Still Arriving ## ARRIVAL (0–3 min) A small stack has gathered on the side table, envelopes addressed in handwriting you half-recognise and half don't. Printed sympathy cards sit among them, a robin, a lighthouse, a watercolour sky, and folded letters in unfamiliar ink.

12 min Caught Laughing ## ARRIVAL Sudden, in the middle of a sentence about something else entirely, a laugh came out of you before any guard could catch it. It was a real one, short, surprised, with that small upward lift at the end you used to know by heart.

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.

Estrangement Has Its Own Weather

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.

Forgetting, Then Remembering

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.

Photographs in Mid-Sentence

Relief and Grief, Together

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.

Talking to Them in the Car

Telling Someone Who Didn't Know

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.

Watering Their Garden

10 min Wearing Their Watch ## ARRIVAL The watch on your wrist outlived the person who chose it, and that is what we will sit with today. If the watch ticks, let that small even sound come forward into the quiet, steady and entirely unbothered by the recent change of wrist.

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 ## Arrival A particular sound rises from a dog who walks into the room where, until recently, their person would have been sitting. A pause at the threshold, then a longer pause, then the soft thud of body onto floorboards, no ceremony, no sigh.

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.

Where the Love Stays

Words Left Mid-Air