Three months after my brother died, my mother was diagnosed with cancer.

In the aftermath of loss, people often search for meaning, cause, or something to make sense of what feels unbearable. Some wondered whether the grief of losing my brother had somehow caused the cancer. It’s an understandable question when pain arrives in waves like this.

But there is no correlation between grief and the onset of cancer.
It wasn’t grief. It was just cruel, unfair timing.

What has become clear to me over the last couple of weeks is how adversity can strip life back to its essentials. In that stripped-back space, I’ve witnessed a strength within my family that has quietly reshaped my understanding of love as something lived moment by moment.

Love can be choosing not to leave someone’s side, even while they’re asleep, simply because you want to be there when they wake.
Love is sitting in silence without needing to fix anything.
Love is holding their hand through another painful procedure, when they’re exhausted, overwhelmed, and so fed up that they just want everything to stop.

There is nothing romantic about moments like these. They are raw, uncomfortable, and often frightening. And yet, they are also deeply human.

As my own internal pressure increased over the past month, juggling grief, fear, responsibility, and uncertainty.  I became very aware of the need to take care of myself in deliberate, practical ways to allow me to remain grounded enough to stay present.

The things that have helped me most have been surprisingly simple, though not always easy:

I’ve allowed myself time to sit with my emotions. That has sometimes meant literally scheduling time to do nothing other than notice what’s there.

I’ve prioritised sleep, aiming for eight hours where possible, knowing how deeply rest affects emotional resilience.

I’ve avoided alcohol, aware of how easily it can intensify already heightened emotions.

I’ve made space for laughter and moments of happiness, because I believe that joy and grief can coexist.

I’ve practised gratitude, even on difficult days, and journalled to give shape to thoughts that otherwise swirl endlessly.

Movement has mattered too, cardio, weight training, stretching as a way to regulate stress and reconnect with my body.

I’ve consciously prioritised time with my children, my wife, and family and friends, reminding myself that connection is not something to postpone until life feels calmer.

I’ve tried to eat well, knowing that nourishment is another form of care.

Perhaps most importantly, I’ve kept reminding myself that what I’m feeling is normal. Feeling disrupted, unsettled, emotional, or overwhelmed in the face of significant loss and change.

I’ve also become more aware of how much stress my body is carrying.  I’ve tried to plan my days around managing it: doing things I enjoy, keeping what I watch light (ideally something that makes me laugh), and gently returning to a mantra I use often: “I am happy” even when I don’t fully feel it yet. This way I'm setting my intention for how i want to feel. A reminder that, to some degree, we can influence how we meet what life brings.

None of this takes away the pain of loss or the uncertainty of illness. It doesn’t make things fair, or easy, or resolved. But it does help me stay present, compassionate with myself and others and connected to what matters most.