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It’s been six weeks since my father passed.

The journey from Sydney to England, the final hours, the funeral and everything in between have blurred together.

Captured moments are stored in a journal that I cannot yet read. The order of service, a treasured reminder.

Grief is a backpack of bricks that gradually wears you down.   It’s a process that is as individual as a fingerprint.

The last few weeks have been a mixture of plateaus and troughs.  I’ve been unable to self-regulate.  Once simple tasks have become time intensive and fraught with anxiety.

I’ve tucked myself away, as if my grief was infectious.  I’ve not been able to trust myself to circulate without voice breaking.

I’ve tried to cajole myself out of this sluggish funk by getting rungs on the board for normality.  Today was a better day.

The grief process follows its own GPS.

All you can do is give it time and keep showing up.