It has been eleven months since my brother died.

I think about him everyday. Throughout the week, I often find myself talking to his photograph. It's rarely anything profound, usually just banter we might have shared had he still been here. It helps me maintain a sense of connection and helps me to carry him with me.

This month brings a milestone with a particular bittersweet quality. It was supposed to be his wedding celebration.

Rather than cancelling the time we had originally booked, several members of the family and I are still coming together. We're choosing to spend that time remembering him, sharing stories, laughing, and undoubtedly shedding a few tears. Everyone in the room will be grieving the same person and each of us will be carrying a very different experience of that loss. Grief is deeply personal and there is something profoundly supportive about sitting alongside people who don't need an explanation for what you're feeling.

As a Psychotherapeutic Counsellor, I often speak about the importance of structure during periods of emotional distress. Over these past eleven months, I've come to appreciate that principle both professionally and personally.

My morning routine has become an anchor.

There is something reassuring about the predictability of the early hours with my children: preparing breakfast, packing lunchboxes, making coffee and exercising. My routines help to create a dependable framework when my emotional energy feels raw.

Grief places demands on both the mind and the body. Concentration can be reduced, motivation can fluctuate, and even simple decisions can feel surprisingly effortful. During those times, familiar routines reduce the number of decisions I have to make. They conserve mental energy and provide a steady rhythm that my nervous system has learned to recognise as safe and familiar. The routines help to create enough stability for me to meet it.

For many years, grief was often understood as something we were expected to eventually "move on" from. Contemporary understanding recognises that many people maintain an ongoing relationship with those who have died. We continue conversations, revisit memories, celebrate birthdays, cook favourite meals or catch ourselves repeating phrases that they were known to have said. These continuing bonds reflect the enduring significance of love and connection.

Perhaps one of the greatest lessons grief has taught me is that opposing emotions can exist at the same time. I can laugh with my children while still missing my brother. I can enjoy a meal with friends and feel sadness later that evening. Joy does not betray grief, and grief doesn't prevent moments of happiness. A large part of my journey through grief is learning to allow both to coexist.

Living through my own bereavement has also deepened my appreciation for something I often discuss with clients. The strategies we encourage: routine, connection, movement, nutrition and self-compassion that help to provide the foundations that allow us to carry painful experiences without becoming overwhelmed by them (the key being consistency and time.)

Grief isn't a linear process; it's an ongoing adaptation. Eleven months on, I'm still learning how to integrate my brother's absence into everyday life. I suspect that learning will continue for many years to come.