What a beautifully overwhelming morning it has been at my writing desk. I am completely overjoyed to share some wonderful news from the heart of Starflower Press: my newest book, Under the Starflower: A Book of Blessings, has officially become an Amazon Bestseller, climbing into the Top 15 in its categories!
When I first sat down to write this collection, my deepest hope was that these pages would serve as true “word medicine”. As a ceremonialist and celebrant, I know how heavy the room can feel when words fail us. I wanted to create a gentle sanctuary of prose; a steady friend, if you like, to hold you at the delicate thresholds of life, death, love, and loss. To see it resonate so deeply and so quickly with readers, celebrants, and ministers across the United Kingdom and beyond is a milestone that fills my heart with immense gratitude.
Words That Hold Us When We Need Them Most
The reviews flowing in from the celebrant community and individual readers have moved me to tears. To know that these verses are finding a home in crematorium chapels, woodland burials, and quiet spaces of personal grief is the greatest reward an author could ask for.
Independent Celebrant Catrina Young kindly shared that the book will be “an invaluable resource to help me find exactly the right word medicine for funeral ceremonies of every kind.”
Another deeply touching review from minister and celebrant Diane McLeish looked at the book through the personal lens of losing her own mother, writing: “At a time when so much felt broken, that was a beautiful truth to hold onto… Under the Starflower feels less like a book on a shelf and more like a compassionate presence beside you.”
A Treasury for All Ceremony Types
The heart of this book is to meet people exactly where they are, acknowledging the unique textures of a life lived. It has been incredibly moving to see fellow ceremony makers connect with the intentional structure of the writing: “The beautiful, poetic prose is a balm to soothe the soul, and gently provides a place to rest a while, for those who grieve… A thoughtful collection of verse to draw inspiration and comfort from, a blessing, in its truest sense.”— Debbie Wells, Celebrant
“Veronika has come to understand that a meaningful blessing needs to meet people where they are… Perhaps what I appreciate most is that these blessings do not try to take grief away. They offer words with which to sit beside it.”— Reverend Maughan, Community Celebrant
“End of life can be such a difficult time but there really is a blessing to connect to everyone’s heart in this book… A must for celebrants but also for anyone looking for an appropriate blessing.”— Amazon Reviewer
Whether you are an officiating professional looking for fresh, inclusive offerings that honour everything from ancestral wisdom and the turning of the seasons to specific crafts and occupations, or someone sitting quietly with a breaking heart, please know that this book was written for you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has purchased a copy, left a beautiful review, or shared the news. Your support has given these blessings wings.
Under the Starflower: A Book of Blessings; Word Medicine for Cremations, Traditional and Woodland Burials, Interments, and Grieving Hearts, is available on Amazon in both Kindle and paperback editions. If you would prefer a signed copy, you can order directly through Starflower Press.
Illustrations by artist and funeral celebrant Philippa Mulvany.
https://veronikarobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/07/k-mitch-hodge-l9a5p6LwA9Q-unsplash.jpg10801920Veronika Sophia Robinsonhttps://veronikarobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/08/Updated-logo-colour_26-300x138.pngVeronika Sophia Robinson2026-08-29 15:52:412026-08-29 15:52:41Celebration of Words: Under the Starflower Becomes an Amazon Bestseller!
Veronika, after writing over 30 books, what was the specific moment or encounter that told you Under The Starflower: A Book of Blessings needed to be born into the world now?
Almost all of my book titles or book ideas come to me in an instant. I listen to the whispers to see where they lead. This book was no different. In some ways, it was a natural marriage of two ideas. The first idea: I sometimes write short, personalised rhymes to include as closing words after the committal. The second influence was based on all the times I’ve searched for a reading or a poem for a family, and nothing was quite right. There are some truly beautiful ones available, of course, and I love being able to suggest them to the bereaved. There are also many readings I’ve heard countless times in my years as a funeral celebrant. These are the ones families see first when they do an Internet search. There are some I remember hearing when I was 19 (and that was almost 40 years ago!)
I wanted to bring something fresh and beautiful; something from my heart. You could say that the moment of deciding to offer this book of blessings for funeral celebrants and grieving hearts rested on my desire to bring ‘a softening’ to this world.
You describe this book as “Word Medicine”. What does that phrase mean to you personally when working with a grieving family?
Words can wound, as we know, and they can heal. If we consider medicine an aid to the healing path, then “word medicine” is a way of supporting those in grief; a balm, if you like. One of the things I have learned as a funeral celebrant is to let those who are grieving speak without interruption. So, my practice is to refrain from sharing relatable stories. I imagine it to be like this: they have passed me a ball to hold (their grief is the ball). My job is to hold the ball. Not talk about my experience of a ball. So the word medicine I seek, and that comes to the page when writing a funeral script, actually begins in the client meeting. They then receive this balm through my spoken voice on the day of the ceremony.
The book features beautiful illustrations by Philippa Mulvany. How did your words and her visual art come together to create a sanctuary for those reading and listening to the words?
From the first time I saw Pippa’s art, I was enchanted. I have a few pieces in my home of her black and white line drawings (which I truly treasure). I am blessed to collaborate with some wonderful artists. Although I’d never collaborated with Pippa before (and nor had she previously illustrated a book), I kept seeing her sketches in my mind as I thought about the blessings. So, I asked, and she said yes! Definitely a collaboration made in heaven. Pippa read my verses and chose which ones to illustrate (she’d have happily illustrated every page!). Rather than direct her, as such, she created images based on how the verses ‘spoke’ to her. A bonus for this book is that Pippa is also a funeral celebrant, so she was able to draw on that experience and infuse it into her art.
Why did you choose the structure of “blessings” for this text, rather than a standard guide to officiating?
Because it’s not about officiating a complete ceremony. Under The Starflower is specifically about bringing moments of deep reflection through ‘distilling the essence of a feeling, thought or topic’ into a short verse/s. As I said earlier, I was so used to seeing the same poems and readings at funerals. I wanted to offer something different for celebrants and, of course, the grieving hearts who will hear these poems.
You wrote this book from your 300-year-old cottage close to the fells of Cumbria. How did the landscape of the Eden Valley hold you while you wrote about the heavy thresholds of loss?
The landscape of the Eden Valley holds me as a writer in the same way it has held me during my own sorrows: the deaths of my pre-term children, my father’s death in a car crash, the suicide of my best friend, and, more recently, my mother’s death.
Throughout my life, Nature has always been my first comforter. My earliest life memories include dancing underneath an electrical storm in my homeland of Australia, touching leaves, climbing trees, breathing the scent of petrichor, and eating dirt! Haha. I have a deep need to connect with Nature and Mother Earth every single day: from the moment the sunlight reaches through my bedroom window in the morning (or awakening to the sound of birdsong), walking barefoot on the grass within minutes of getting out of bed, caressing the apples on my trees, plucking blueberries off the bushes, walking in the woods, resting my cheek against the cool moss on old stone walls, and more. So much more. I can see the fells (Pennines) from my writing room. They are not only the backbone of England, they’re my touchstone. I often write while out under the porch, where I get a close-up view of bees, wasps, various butterflies, birds like the bullfinch, blackbird, great spotted woodpecker, song thrush, and ever-changing cloudscape.
Your core philosophy is that no one truly knows what an individual is feeling because every relationship is entirely unique. Why is dismantling the phrase “I know how you feel” so vital for genuine healing and connection?
How can anyone ever know how we feel? Sure, we may have experienced grief. We may have experienced the death of a loved one in the same type of ending: car crash, dementia, etc., but our feelings are our own. No one else in the world has walked our life’s path, and the sum total of our experiences. They don’t have our wiring. And then, there’s the relationship we had with the person who died. That relationship is, like our feelings, experiences and wiring, ours and ours alone. For example, my experience of being mothered is going to be different to everyone else on this planet (including my seven siblings). I can’t know how someone else feels about their mother’s death. I can only know my own feelings.
For me, “I know how you feel” is right up there with other irritating expressions, such as: “I’m so sorry for your loss”. The person who died isn’t lost. They’re dead. Yes, of course there is a loss (a missing loved one) in their life. I understand that. I just think it is a cliché (an easy way out, with little thought, and not really an empathic way of connecting). Why don’t we slow down and think of another way of validating their life-changing pain?
I believe we need to dismantle the phrase of “I know how you feel” (and toss it away) because it short-circuits and completely invalidates how the mourner is feeling. The way I see it is that as soon as someone says that phrase they are putting the attention onto themselves, and their experience, rather than leaving it with the person who has just been bereaved. I appreciate that people think the phrase creates connection. I don’t believe it does.
I remember the day my mother died (on the other side of the world to me), I could barely think and function. I had to go to the supermarket that day as I was, ironically, hosting a retreat for funeral celebrants that afternoon on the topic: Creating Beautiful Bereavement Ceremonies. I bumped into someone I know (and who had been told a few days before, by my husband, that my mother was dying). When they asked how my mother was, I replied that she’d died that morning. “I know how you feel!” they said, and spent the next twenty minutes going through their old grief story with not another word to acknowledge my feelings.
Many mourners have similar experiences.
The best support we can give to the bereaved is to listen. That is, do not try to fix them (as much as we want to wave a wand!) or change the subject. Very few people know how to just ‘be’. To hold ‘the ball’. One of the kindest things you can offer to someone who is grieving is to ask them to tell you about their loved one.
You advocate for gentleness with grieving hearts. What does real, practical gentleness look like in a society that often rushes people through loss?
We live in a society that rushes through everything, so of course, culturally, we’re not going to make allowances for heart-wrenching pain. We would, however, give people time off to heal a broken leg! A grieving heart, though? Not likely.
For me, it is about being aware EVERY SINGLE DAY that anyone I may encounter could be carrying a grieving heart: the person by the till at the service station, the lady in front of me in a supermarket, the old man sitting on a park bench, the young woman avoiding eye contact as she walks down the street, call-centre woman, the person next to you on the train, the person you think is driving too slowly or hasn’t moved when the lights turned green.
Grieving hearts
are
everywhere.
When we start to see the world full of ‘the walking wounded’, our words become softer, our time becomes a gift, and our kindness is a given.
There was a time when those in mourning wore black. And, of course, many of us do at funerals (and just as many don’t, if they want a non-traditional vibe). Black is worn as an everyday item, so we don’t have the same instant visual identifier as we had in the past. There’s a lot of attention in the lead-up to the funeral and the day of the service, but then everyone else goes back to their busy lives. Suddenly, the bereaved are living in an uncharted liminal space.
Here, but not here.
Their heart has been shredded, and the world is just carrying on as if nothing’s happened. Somehow, that makes the pain even worse.
My experience of grief was that I soon learned people are fundamentally focused on self. I’ve learned, the hard way, that when I face a bereavement, the kindest thing I can do for myself is to go into isolation. This saves people from saying the usual stupid things, and means I don’t have to deal with any more upset than I’m already going through. I can count on five fingers the people who were genuinely there for me (even if not near me physically) when my mother died.
When working with the bereaved, I always check to see what support they’ve got around them. Not everyone has a strong circle of family or friendships. There may be family members around, but they are constantly trying to ‘shut down’ the chief mourner with comments like “it is what it is” or “she’s in a better place” or “we have to get on with things”. I’ve heard people, whose spouse of sixty years has died, say “I really miss her” and their next of kin replying with: “Don’t be silly Dad!” How is it silly to feel the ache of emptiness?
The book covers cremations, traditional and woodland burials, and interments. How does the physical setting change the texture of the words needed?
It changes everything. A chapel, no matter how beautiful, is an indoor space. It disconnects us from the outside world (unless it is beautifully designed, like the one at Roucan Loch, near Dumfries, Scotland where you’re comforted by views of the loch).
It is a legal requirement to ‘dispose’ of a body. We are disconnected from that at a crematorium. We use curtains (in some places and cases) to mark the final goodbye. Increasingly, people are shunning the shutting of a curtain.
When we are in Nature for a burial, an interment or a scattering, we can draw on the beauty of the world around us. We are also connected to the physicality of the final goodbye. This helps the brain to connect with the reality of the ending. As much as it is confronting, it enables the slow path of healing to begin.
For me, as a woman and as a celebrant, I’m most at home in Nature. Standing under a canopy of trees in Summer or frosty grass in the depths of Winter, brings a level of healing that’s easier to tap into than when you’re indoors. There are many verses in Under The Starflower which draw on Nature and anchor mourners to the setting. There are also verses suited to the crematorium.
Grief isn’t just about the immediate shock of death; it is, in your own words, “a long, quiet road”. How does Under The Starflower support a heart six months or a year after the funeral is over?
There is permission in the book for celebrants and families to publish their chosen verse within an Order of Service booklet (provided copyright and credits are included). I know that families hold onto these booklets for the rest of their lives. They are keepsakes. Those words will take them back to the day of the ceremony, and will act as a balm in the same way that my funeral scripts bring comfort years and years after the ceremony.
Relationships are rarely perfect. How can a blessing honour a loss where the relationship was complicated, strained, or painful?
Honesty is an important aspect of healing. In the blessing about an estranged child, titled, The Unbroken Thread, it acknowledges the “unsaid words and burned bridges” while declaring that it “doesn’t match the love which remains”. The reading gives permission, if you like, to release “the heavy stones we used to hold”, and claims “the tenderness which remains”.
A blessing can also remind us of the strengths or qualities of the person who has died, and this, too, may bring healing.
At my local mediumship-development circle this week, our teacher Margaret gave us a homework prompt: write about your strongest emotion and the opposite emotion. What does this mean? Is the opposite of strong, weak? Or does my teacher mean an emotion that feels dramatically different?
Here are my thoughts, and if they resonate in any way, I’ve included a ritual at the end for you.
Grief and gratitude, I have learned, are born of the same sacred devotion, inseparable as the soil and the rain. So, while they may feel opposite, they are hand-holding twins.
To grieve is to sit quietly beneath my apple trees when the frost has taken the blossom, resisting the heavy wintering of my soul. A cold, unrelenting downpour drenches the fells, matching my inner landscape: a quiet, mist-shrouded sanctuary of solitude. In this dark space, I ask grief for a cure. I listen as it demands I feel the hollow weight in my chest. A deep and unhurried stillness settles where time slows to a stop. I am still.
A physical ache so raw. Winter before the thaw.
Life has taught me that this profound darkness is precisely what births its apparent opposite: the soulful singing of gratitude is like a blackbird at daybreak. From the same heart that begrudgingly pumps during the pummelling punch of sorrow, gratitude rises like petrichor after a sudden Summer storm, a sharp inhale of life that drapes my weary shoulders in golden sunshine. Together, grief and gratitude are anchored by the awareness of birdsong at dawn, the velvet of green moss, and the balm of walking barefoot on cool, damp grass. This is a triumphant ascendancy to the beauty of what remains.
Grief and gratitude, the yin and yang of my emotional climaxes and cleanses, cannot exist in isolation; they flow from the exact same well, each sharing the centre of the other. Grief is the heavy price I pay for the profound privilege of having loved and been loved. Gratitude shatters that cost, no more or less sacred than the gruelling girth of grief.
The soil of sorrow’s dark, fertile depths give the vibrant blooms of thankfulness a home in which to root. My heart, my life, one long holy ritual: holding on and letting go.
🤍 🤍 🤍
Ritual:Soil, Rain, and Blossom If you too are exploring and experiencing the emotional continuum of grief and gratitude, this simple ritual can be performed at home or in a quiet outdoor space to synthesise the heavy weight of sorrow and the awakening of thankfulness.
Symbolic Ritual Items 🌱 A small bowl of rich, dark earth (symbolising the fertile Winter of grief) 💧 A small vessel of water (symbolising your tears, rain, and cleansing) 🌸 A single fresh leaf, blossom, or flower petal (symbolising the bloom of gratitude)
Choreography Rooting in the Dark (Your Grief) Place your hands flat onto the bowl of earth. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Allow yourself to feel the heavy, cool stillness of the soil. Acknowledge whatever ache, empty space, or sorrow lives inside you right now. Say aloud or silently:
“I honour the dark Winter of my soul. This pain is the sacred proof that I have loved deeply.”
The River of Release (The Bridge You Cross) Dip your fingers into your chosen vessel of water. Gently sprinkle a few drops onto the soil. Watch how the soil absorbs the water, just as the human spirit absorbs the teaching of our tears. Recognise that your sorrow softens your heart, making it ready for new life. When you’re ready, say aloud or silently:
“My tears are the rain that softens the hard ground. I allow the flow.”
Awakening (Your Gratitude) Pick up the fresh leaf or blossom. Hold it gently to your heart, feeling the life within. Inhale deeply—like breathing in the smell of petrichor after a storm. Focus entirely on a beautiful memory you are thankful for. When you’re ready, say aloud or silently:
“I awaken to the sunrise. I carry the love forward, and I am wholeheartedly grateful for the beauty that remains.”
Closing the Circle Place the blossom on top of the watered earth. Leave the bowl on a windowsill or beneath a tree as a living testament to the truth that grief and gratitude live in the exact same sacred space.
🤍 🤍 🤍
Sent with love from my writing desk in the wild fells of Cumbria,
Veronika Sophia Robinson Author, Novelist, & Weaver of Word Medicine I hold space for the dark soil of our grief and the soft rain of our gratitude, weaving word medicine to honour life’s intense thresholds. From my 300-year-old cottage, I write to celebrate the beautiful, bruised complexities of the human soul. 🤍 🤍 🤍 If this blog touched your heart, you are warmly invited to step further into my literary sanctuary. Explore the complete collection of fiction and non-fiction books at Starflower Press, or discover the living map of your soul with a personal astrology reading at The Oracle. My celebrant training and celebrant masterclasses can be found at Heart-led Celebrants.
Perhaps it’s because of my work as a funeral celebrant or because of the different times I’ve walked the path of grief, but I find the unsolicited serving up of platitudes can demean a fellow human’s feelings.
Platitudes are the words we wear when we don’t know what else to say. Spiritually, platitudes are a paradox. On one hand, they act as thought-terminating clichés that bypass empathy and silence the suffering of the moment. They serve the speaker of those words, not the recipient. The ego helps us to ward off the uncomfortable. Retreating from someone else’s pain takes us away from being present.
We speak platitudes to hide the raw edges of grief or pain. And yet, beneath their veneer lies a universal truth—a desperate human desire to connect.
We offer them like sacred talismans:
Everything happens for a reason Time heals all wounds It is what it is
Perhaps platitudes were formed on the bedrock of collective human wisdom or even survival? We repeat them because we sense the seed of the universal human stories within them. The desire to connect with another isn’t the problem, of course, it’s the mindless recitation of words that don’t help another to heal.
To walk a mindful path, let us swap the easy answer for the heavy, beautiful act of sitting with someone in the dark. Unsure how?
Instead of saying They are in a better place perhaps you could say:
I am holding space
for the massive absence left behind.
Everything happens for a reason dismisses a person’s pain. How about saying:
This is deeply unfair,
and you do not have to find a lesson in it.
God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle does not help a person. Why not support them with:
You shouldn’t have to be this strong right now.
I am here in the weakness with you.
When someone’s future is uncertain, you might be tempted to soothe things over with words like: It will all work out in the end. Or, you could enter into presence and say:
I don’t know how this unfolds,
but you will not walk through the unknown alone.
If you find yourself in the company of someone who is suffering deeply, instead of telling them to be positive or cheer up or look on the bright side, you could say:
I am ready to sit with you in the dark
for as long as it takes.
Sent with warmth and compassion from my writing desk in the wild fells of Cumbria,
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Author, Novelist, & Weaver of Word Medicine If this blog touched your heart, you are warmly invited to step further into my literary sanctuary. Explore the complete collection of fiction and non-fiction books at Starflower Press, or discover the living map of your soul with a personal reading at The Oracle. My celebrant training and celebrant masterclasses can be found at Heart-led Celebrants.
https://veronikarobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/singlecosmos.jpg585585Veronika Sophia Robinsonhttps://veronikarobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/08/Updated-logo-colour_26-300x138.pngVeronika Sophia Robinson2026-06-11 07:05:182026-06-11 07:12:32Sitting in the Dark: Why Platitudes Fail Us in Grief
Today’s the one-year anniversary since my beautiful mother slipped from this earthly life. A year that feels like a day while also feeling like a hundred years have passed. How is that? What delusion does grief spin? I’ve just been on a video call with two of my brothers, and shared the disbelief that a whole year has passed by with such speed.
This photo is from the last time mum came to England and stayed with us for a few months. I keep it on my fridge. And when I think that beautiful woman is now ‘dust’, it shocks me every single time.
Grief steals many things. Most of them are quite obvious, but the one we don’t talk about is the poaching of time. I’m in a time warp, and more conscious of my own mortality than I’ve ever been. Time is slipping away. With my 60th birthday next year, already I’m thinking ‘why bother’ about so many things from the mundane ‘necessary’ dental work to life-enhancing dreams. What’s the point, I wonder. I’ll be dead soon enough anyway. I feel as if I’m already slipping away from this life.
Mum with me on my wedding day
Not everyone loves their mother or holds her in such high regard as I do mine, I know that. Not everyone whose mother has died will relate to what I’m sharing. What I do know, though, and what is true for me, is that even a year later this grief feels so hard. When I walk by my mother’s photos, it stops me. That beautiful smile. My mama. The woman who held me, bathed me, dressed me, played games with me, made (and still makes) me laugh with her sense of mischief. The woman who inspired me like no other. And then I think of the reality: her physical body, the one that loved me so much, is nothing more than cremains (cremated remains). How it that possible? And with that question lurks the one that plays on my mind every single day now. What is the point of anything?
I often think of my mother’s life, and all her joys and sorrows, creativity and obstacles, loves and losses. All the hard work, all the years raising eight children, all the… And now she’s gone. I know this applies to every human who’s ever come to this Earth, but this high-definition imagery of my mother living her life, and then gone, just ‘gets’ me in a way nothing else in my life ever has. I grew in her womb. I was one with her. If she’s ‘gone’, then where and who am I?
Mum outside the little hut she built on Mt. Arthur in Tasmania.
Everything I’ve believed in for so long, different spiritual ‘ideas’ and practices, are now almost meaningless. I beg the Universe to answer me: do I have free will or am I just a puppet on a string? I don’t want to be a puppet on a string, I yell. I’m not your toy! Of course, I don’t know the answer. What I do know, is that I’m questioning things that have long been my mainstay, my inner truth. Sometimes I look at all the books on my shelves, those portals into knowledge and wisdom, that I’ve valued for deep esoteric teachings and as each day passes, I’m tempted to burn everything. Nothing gives me any answer as to human suffering. Mine or that of other people.
With my mum when I was about 21.
The first time I ever saw my mother cry was when I was about ten, and she’d found out her mother had died. My grandmother lived in Germany, and I never had the privilege of meeting her though I loved to write and receive letters from her. But those tears my mother shed? I only wish I could have held her in the way I’ve needed holding. The grief she’ll have felt, not to mention regret at living overseas far away from her for a couple of decades, will have been unbearable. And I’ve no doubt that she, like me, will have also felt grief for the losses in her mother’s life.
My mother’s mother
The mother-daughter bond (for better or for worse) is unlike any other relationship. Sometimes daughters think that difficult relationships with mothers are better served by estrangement. This is not true, and death will wallop just as hard, if not harder, than for those whose relationship was less complicated.
My mother’s eight children, in age order. Left to right: Wolf, Heidi, Horst, Veronika, Ramona, Cam, Rene and Albert reunited for our father’s funeral.
The death of a loved one changes us. I mean, it has to, right? Otherwise, what’s the point of going through that emotional torture? Perhaps my torture has been amplified by the nature of the work I do as a funeral celebrant whereby I walk alongside people in their grief. The weeks leading up to and after my mother’s death were unlike anything I’d experienced before as a funeral celebrant (even though I’ve had extremely difficult funerals, such as child funerals and officiating my best friend’s cremation service and later, her memorial). What made them so hard was that each time I said the words of committal for someone’s mother, or read a tribute that said “I love you Mum. You’re my best friend,” or had to listen to music with the lyrics “You gave me my name and the colour of my eyes,”, I would just die inside. My mourners had no idea what was happening in my private life. The day my Mum died, I had to work. Several months earlier, I’d organised to host and facilitate a retreat for funeral celebrants on creating beautiful bereavement ceremonies. The irony! There was no calling it off. Not only had I been officiating funerals all the way up to my mother’s death, I then had four days of intense focus on teaching about grief. And then straight back to funeral work. I don’t share this for pity (that never helped anyone anyway), but because the reality is this year has challenged me on many levels, personally and professionally.
My role as a funeral celebrant has never felt so difficult as it has in this last year.
Maybe I’ve just not had enough space to step into ‘grief-free’ happy spaces for long enough to enable some recalibration. Apart from my mother’s death last year, the only other thing I remember with any clarity was a week away in the Scottish Highlands walking the Great Glen Way with my friend Angela. When I replay some of the videos we made, it makes me smile to see how much laughter we shared. I yearn for my life to be filled with that sort of belly-aching laughter and joy all the time. Everything else about 2025 is a blank. This past year has been like walking through the thickest fog I’ve ever known. What are you meant to do in fog? The high beam doesn’t work. The low beam doesn’t work. How am I supposed to see my way forward? Despite my spiritual beliefs, this grief has been unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. There are still so many moments where I see a lovely card somewhere and think “Oh, I’ll get that for mum.” And then that realisation a few seconds later… Or when her birthday and Christmas came around, and ‘reminder’ emails from the florist I used to use to send her flowers land in my inbox asking me if I’d like to order a bouquet. A horrible reminder that I’ll never, ever, ever, ever again have the pleasure and privilege of brightening her day with flowers. That hurts.
Me and my mum
I’ve known grief a number of times now, but the most significant ones have been those of my parents and best friend Pam. This coming Christmas Day will mark ten years since Pam chose to end her life. At no level of my being is it possible to believe that a decade has gone by. I’m past that stage of thinking “I must tell Pam…” but I do have times where I see someone in the street who maybe had the same hair cut or dress style, and I think “Oh, there’s Pam!” Those moments are akin to being hit by a truck. I gather myself before the tears start. And then there are the funerals I officiate where they have one of the pieces of music we had at her funeral. I walk up the aisle of the crematorium just wanting to curl into foetal position.
Next month, on the equinox, it will be fourteen years since my father was killed in a car crash in Australia. My father’s death has integrated a bit more, finally, but I can still have tears turn up from nowhere. That he died aged 77, the age my husband is now, nags at me.
For the uninitiated into grief, anticipatory grief can be harder than when we experience a sudden death. Yes, sure, we get a chance to say goodbye but we’re also grieving twice. Before and after. While we’re waiting around for them to die, we’re grieving for tomorrow. The tomorrows where they won’t be there. And even when you’re expecting it, somehow nothing prepares you for the moment. The moment when… For me, just knowing my mum was still alive, her heart beating strong as an ox, even when deep in coma, right to the last beat somehow lulled me into a sense of hope. Where there’s life there’s hope, right? I was wrong. Despite the ridiculous amount of crying I’d done in the previous two months, when my brother phoned me during the night, UK time, to say she’d died, it hit me hard. She’s gone.
Hopefully she’s dancing with my father again
I’ve spoken sternly to the Universe and have made it quite clear that I’m in no shape to receive any more grief, thanks. And yet, I look at my family (I’m one of eight children) and friends and think “fuck, unless I go first, I’ll be saying goodbye to you too”. With that, I’m flicking pesky tears off my cheeks. “No,” my heart says. “Just NO!” I think of their beautiful faces and loving hearts, and I just can’t imagine them not being here in that form anymore. And yet, despite that, I know that death is a change of form. Nothing ever really dies. But grief doesn’t want me to know that. Grief says “How many ways can I pull at that heart of yours or bring up memories you’d long forgotten?”
I realise that it might seem I’m indulging and wallowing in self pity. Maybe I am. Or maybe it’s because, dear reader, that we live in a grief-illiterate culture and people just want the bereaved to crawl under a rock and shut the fuck up so that they don’t darken anyone else’s day. That’s how it feels. I know that, apart from work, I’ve become even more of a hermit than ever before. Life feels kinder that way. There’s no risk of someone saying something which stings, like “I don’t need to offer you condolences because of your strong spiritual beliefs.” Or, “Are you over your mother’s death yet?” I WILL NEVER BE OVER MY MOTHER’S DEATH! And, as I say that, I’m also happy that she is out there, as stardust, at one with the Universe. She’s exactly where she wanted to be: in her light body.
The children’s book my mother wrote and illustrated.
Grief the gift-giver Perhaps if you don’t know me well or at all, it might be hard to believe that I am, by nature, an optimist and grateful about my life, even though I’ve felt like a shadow of my former self this past year. What hasn’t changed is the way I start each day where I give thanks for my beautiful life. I’m grateful that practice hasn’t changed. When I take myself off for walks in the woods, I give thanks that I live in such a beautiful part of the world and have a working life that affords me freedom to walk in between pockets of writing time. This is one of my liminal spaces. Perhaps grief, too, is a liminal space and that I will emerge. I wonder who that person will be because she certainly won’t be the one who entered.
No matter what Life brings our way, everything has to have an upside or positive learning that can be taken from it, otherwise, what is the point of any of this?
Grief has brought gifts. Strange, but true. I’ve always been grateful for my upbringing even if I wasn’t always grateful for my parents at certain times. Truth is, when we’re kids, our parents can be annoying or authoritative. We become teens and they’re downright embarrassing. We become adults and think we know more than them and see their flaws as if they’re emblazoned on their forehead.
And. Then. They. DIE.
And we become an orphan. I’m not only speaking for myself, now, but all the mourners I’ve worked with of various ages who are hit hard by this reality. Even at 70, it’s like the Universe just pulled the rug out from under them. The idea, the reality, that our parents are gone is inconceivable.
We always hope our own children will understand the fragility of life and that their parents won’t always be around. That maybe, just being that bit kinder wouldn’t hurt them. That accepting their parents are human, is part of growing up. Because all those things we bitch about in relation to our parents, become utterly meaningless when we can no longer phone them and hear their voices.
Tucked into an alcove in my bedroom are photos of my mum, in the prime of her life, sitting on the swing in our garden and smiling; and my dad, as a young man, playing his piano accordion. No matter how many times I walk into my bedroom during the day or night, I pause at that altar and say ‘thank you’. I blow them kisses and say “Thank you for giving me the most incredible childhood. Thank you for the sacrifices you made. Thank you for modelling creativity, strength, resilience and adaptability. Thank you for being my parents.”
I wish I hadn’t needed grief to reach this level of gratitude.
My mother passed away at the New Moon in Pisces, releasing her last breath at 11.11a.m. on February 28th 2025 in Queensland, Australia, with her first-born child by her side. There was a lovely planetary line up.
This photo of the sky was taken on the day my Mum died by my brother Cam. Each time I look at it I can see my mother skipping up those planets, like a ladder to eternal bliss. Perfect.
I’m grateful that today there’s also a rare planetary line up. The timing is perfect.
I grieve that I wasn’t with her in those last months and years. I am grateful, however, for having known my mother’s love. A love like no other and completely irreplaceable.
https://veronikarobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/10/wolfgang-hasselmann-w_l4K0oyEyY-unsplash.jpg12851920Veronika Sophia Robinsonhttps://veronikarobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/08/Updated-logo-colour_26-300x138.pngVeronika Sophia Robinson2026-02-28 11:26:532026-02-28 12:15:04Grief the Time Thief and Grief the Gift-Giver