What Do You Think?

In August 2024, I celebrated my 50th birthday.

One of the presents my late partner Paul gave me was a two night trip to Europe.

We decided we wanted to visit Seville.

Paul never made it.

He died a few months later.

So, a few weeks after his death, I headed to Seville with my teenage daughter, determined that I was going to make the memories we'd planned to make together.

Paul was a seasoned traveller. He had worked and lived all over the world and had shown me how to travel.

Which is quite something when you consider that when I first met him in 2013, I had a crippling fear of flying.

He helped me overcome it.

He once told me that the world needed to be explored and that he would keep me safe.

I believed him.

And he kept his promise.

He was the best travel buddy you could ask for.

And then suddenly, he wasn't there.

I had two choices.

Let the fear return.

Or keep travelling.

That first trip to Seville was the hardest trip I have ever taken.

I forgot how to manage airports.

I forgot how to manage being abroad.

Things that I had done countless times suddenly felt scary and unfamiliar.

My anxiety and fear were through the roof.

But I survived.

We survived.

And more importantly, I made memories with my daughter.

Since that trip, I have gradually regained my confidence.

I've remembered how to navigate an airport.

I've remembered what to pack.

I've remembered what needs organising beforehand.

I've learned that I can do this.

I've learned not to let fear stop me from seeing the world.

But there is still one thing that seems determined to come on every journey with me alongside my grief.

Anxiety!

I've just come back from a few days away with my adult children.

And I realised something.

I'm actually quite good at this.

Travelling without Paul, I mean.

I book the accommodation.

I plan the days.

I work out the itinerary.

I make sure we have what we need.

I'm the decision maker.

I'm the one thinking three steps ahead.

Have we got the tickets?

What time do we need to leave?

Where are we going tomorrow?

Do we need to book anything?

And, importantly, will my phone have enough battery left for the Uber at the end of the day?

Because apparently, when you're the only adult responsible for getting everyone home, 12% battery suddenly feels like a life-threatening situation.

My children probably don't notice most of this.

They don't see the mental checklist running quietly in my head.

And that's okay.

Because I've realised that I can do it.

I have grown in confidence in ways I never expected.

But there's something I still miss.

I miss having someone to bounce things off.

Paul and I worked so well together when we travelled.

I didn't need to check our passports ten billion times because he had already done it.

We made decisions together.

We shared the responsibility.

We could throw an idea into the air and see what the other person thought.

"Shall we do this tomorrow?"

"Do you think we should go there?"

"Is this a good idea?"

And sometimes the answer would have been:

"No, that's ridiculous."

Or:

"Yes. Let's do it."

I miss that.

I miss having someone to say:

"What do you think?"

There is something about making every decision alone that nobody really prepares you for.

Because grief isn't only about missing the person.

Sometimes it's about missing the other person in the decision making process.

And I've realised that this is one of the things I notice most as I start doing more on my own.

I don't feel incapable.

I don't necessarily feel frightened.

And I don't even want someone else to take over.

I just sometimes wish I could turn to someone and ask what they think.

I'm a massive overthinker.

I've always been like that. I meticulously plan things, I like to know what's happening and I like to have a Plan B.

But grief has added another layer to that.

Now there is a Plan B for the Plan B.

And sometimes there is a quiet little voice asking:

What if something happens to me?

Do the children know everything they need to know?

Do they know where things are?

Would they know what to do?

Of course they are more than capable of dealing with an emergency.

But I'm still their mum.

And I want to protect them for as long as I possibly can.

So my holiday checklist now comes with a few added extras.

Holidays are different now.

But I'm not going to let grief stop them from happening.

Because I know something now that I didn't know before.

Life can change in an instant.

I don't lie on a sunbed and think:

"This is the life."

I lie on a sunbed and think:

"I wish Paul were here."

I see families making memories and I hope they are soaking every single moment of them up.

Because I've seen how quickly life can change.

I don't take things for granted anymore.

I laugh harder.

I tell the people around me that I love them.

I try to be kind to the people I meet.

And I make memories.

Lots of them.

Paul used to say:

You come with nothing, you leave with nothing. All you have are your memories

So that's my job now.

To make them.

For me.

For my children.

And, in some small way, for Paul too.

And then there is the postcard.

Whenever I go somewhere, I buy Paul a postcard.

I tell him about the trip.

It's become a ritual.

A fridge magnet for me.

A postcard for him.

It might seem like such a tiny thing.

But grief is often found in the tiny things, isn't it?

The familiar rituals.

The things we do without really thinking.

The things that remind us that although our life has moved forward, our relationship with that person hasn't simply disappeared.

So I bring the postcard home.

And perhaps, in my own little way, I'm saying:

"You were here too."

I've included the postcard idea as one of the activities in my Connect app because I've found that sometimes we don't need complicated ways to remember someone.

Sometimes we just need permission to keep doing the little things that make us feel connected to them.

And perhaps that's what I'm learning.

I can make the decisions.

I can plan the trip.

I can navigate the airport.

I can make sure my phone battery lasts until the Uber arrives.

I can do all of it.

But being able to do something alone doesn't mean I have to stop wishing I could have shared it with him.

Both things can be true.

I am becoming more confident.

And I still miss Paul.

I am building a life of my own.

And I still wish he was here to hear about it.

I can make the decisions.

And sometimes, I still wish I could ask:

"What do you think?"