The start of a new year is meant to feel hopeful. Fresh. Clean.
But when you’ve lost someone you love, especially in the year just gone, it can feel
anything but.
The calendar turns. The world keeps moving.
And suddenly you’re standing in a year they will never touch.
There’s a finality to it that hits differently.
It’s not just that they’re gone. It’s the realisation that this year, and every year after, will
happen without them. No new memories. No new versions of them. No “maybe they’ll
be here for this.”
That can be crushing.
You might feel heavy, flat, anxious, angry, numb, or all of it at once.
You might feel guilty for surviving. Guilty for smiling. Guilty for not smiling.
You might feel like everyone else has stepped forward, while you’re still standing in last
year, holding onto someone who can’t come with you.
And the truth is, they can’t come with you in the way they used to.
But that doesn’t mean you have to leave them behind.
What I’ve learned, slowly and painfully, is that the way forward isn’t “moving on.”
It’s learning how to carry them differently.
Sometimes that looks small.
It might be wearing a necklace with their photo, close to your chest.
It might be saying good morning to them when you wake up.
It might be making coffee the way they did, cooking their recipe, or playing the song
they loved on the drive to work.
It might be building a quiet routine where they still have a place.
And sometimes it looks bigger.
Living in a way you know they’d be proud of.
Choosing kindness when it’s hard.
Rest when you’d rather push.
Joy, even when it feels undeserved.
I lost my dad, and it took me six years to feel like I could breathe again, let alone live.
For a long time, survival was the only goal.
But once I stopped trying to outrun the grief and instead invited him into my everyday,
something shifted.
He didn’t disappear.
He changed form.
Now, he walks with me. In the way I show up. In the values I hold. In the moments I
pause and think, you’d like this. And because of that, I can cope.
If you’re starting a new year without someone you love, know this.
There is no right way to do this.
You don’t have to be ready.
You don’t have to feel hopeful.
You don’t have to leave them behind to move forward.
Take them with you, gently and imperfectly, in whatever way feels right today.
That’s not weakness.
That’s love continuing.
With warmth,
Amy-Lea Pettigrew.