Still Here, Still Mom

Tag: suicide loss

  • The Day Before

    The Day Before

    There is something about the day before.

    Tomorrow marks five months since my husband died.

    Five months.

    Writing those words still doesn’t feel real.

    People often ask me how I’m doing.

    Most of the time, I don’t really know how to answer.

    Some days I smile.

    Some days I laugh with my daughters.

    Some days I get through work, make dinner, help with homework, and almost convince myself that life is finding a new rhythm.

    And then the calendar reminds me.

    Tomorrow is another month without him.

    I’ve realised something over these past five months.

    For me, the day before is often harder than the anniversary itself.

    It’s as though my heart starts grieving before my mind catches up.

    I begin counting.

    The days.

    The weeks.

    The months.

    I start preparing myself for a date I wish had never existed.

    It feels as though my body remembers before I do.

    Today has been one of those days.

    I’ve felt heavy.

    Not because anything terrible happened today.

    Simply because tomorrow exists.

    One of the hardest parts of losing someone isn’t just missing them.

    It’s losing the person you shared your ordinary days with.

    Today I had one of those moments where I wished I could pick up the phone and call Noel.

    Not because I needed him to fix anything.

    Just because I needed him to listen.

    We had an unspoken rule in our marriage.

    One of us would say,

    “Babe… I just need to vent.”

    And the other person simply listened.

    No advice.

    No fixing.

    No judgment.

    Just a safe place to put everything we were carrying.

    I miss that more than I can explain.

    People often think grief is about missing birthdays, anniversaries and holidays.

    It is.

    But it’s also about missing the person who listened to your ordinary Tuesday.

    The one who knew why your day had been difficult before you even finished explaining.

    The one who could make the weight feel lighter simply by saying,

    “I’m here.”

    Writing has become that place for me now.

    Not because it replaces Noel.

    Nothing ever could.

    But because it gives somewhere for the words to go instead of leaving them trapped inside my chest.

    I used to think writing was simply recording my grief.

    Now I think it’s something else.

    It’s how I visit the memories that still belong to us.

    It’s how I remind myself that before there was the worst day of my life…

    There were thousands of beautiful ones.

    If you’re reading this while carrying your own grief, I want you to know something.

    If today feels heavier than tomorrow…

    You’re not doing grief wrong.

    Sometimes our hearts remember before the calendar does.

    And that’s okay.

    One day at a time.

    🤍

    Natalie

  • Can Love and Anger Exist at the Same Time?

    Can Love and Anger Exist at the Same Time?

    Over the last few days, I’ve been writing about my husband.

    Not about the day I lost him.

    About the man he was.

    I’ve been remembering how he would tell me stories about DJing as a teenager, spending hours searching record stores in Hillbrow for imported vinyl, and how music lit up a part of him that nothing else could.

    I’ve remembered the husband who always wanted me and the girls to have more than he did.

    Whenever he received extra money, whether it was a tax refund, commission or a bonus, he would smile and say,

    “Babe, I’m just going to buy myself a pair of shoes… you and the girls can have the rest.”

    I argued every time.

    He always gave the same answer.

    “You and the girls need it more than I do.”

    That was Noel.

    So today, as I sat reading through my journal, I found myself asking a question that has probably been living quietly in my heart all along.

    If he loved us so much… why did he leave us?

    It’s a question that hurts to write.

    Because it feels like I’m questioning the man I loved.

    But I don’t think I am.

    I think I’m simply being honest.

    For a long time, I believed I had to choose.

    Either I could remember Noel as the loving husband and father he was…

    Or I could feel angry that he took his own life.

    Today, I realised something.

    I don’t have to choose.

    Both can exist.

    I can love him with every part of my heart.

    And I can still be angry that he’s not here.

    I can understand that he was suffering.

    And I can still wish with everything in me that he had stayed.

    Those feelings don’t cancel each other out.

    They exist together.

    That’s what grief has taught me.

    I’ve also realised something else.

    Depression lies.

    It doesn’t just make someone feel sad.

    It can distort reality.

    It can convince someone they are a burden when they are deeply loved.

    It can make someone believe their family would somehow be better off without them, even when the opposite is true.

    I don’t know what Noel was thinking that night.

    I never will.

    But I do know the man he was for the fourteen years we shared.

    The husband.

    The father.

    The man who put us first over and over again.

    One terrible night does not erase a lifetime of love.

    His final decision does not erase the thousands of decisions he made before it.

    The breakfasts he made.

    The school events he attended.

    The hugs he gave.

    The sacrifices he made.

    The laughter we shared.

    The life we built together.

    That was Noel too.

    Maybe that’s what healing is slowly teaching me.

    Not that the questions disappear.

    Not that the anger goes away.

    But that I don’t have to choose one truth over another.

    I can carry both.

    I can love him.

    I can miss him.

    I can be angry.

    I can understand that his mind was fighting a battle I could not see.

    And somehow, all of those things can exist in the same heart.

    If you’re reading this because you’ve lost someone to suicide, maybe you’re asking yourself the same question I asked today.

    “If they loved me… why did they leave?”

    I don’t have an answer.

    But I hope you know this:

    Your love for them and your anger at what happened are not enemies.

    They are both part of grief.

    And you don’t have to apologise for feeling either.

    One day at a time.

    🤍

    Natalie
    Still Here, Still Mom

  • The guilt I live with

    The guilt I live with

    The guilt is unbearable.

    I don’t think anyone can truly explain this part of grief unless they have lived it.

    People tell you:

    “It’s not your fault.”
    “You couldn’t have known.”
    “You didn’t make this decision.”

    And I hear them.

    But my mind doesn’t listen.

    Instead, it replays everything.

    Over and over again.

    Instead, it replays everything.

    Over and over again.

    I find myself going back through our life together, searching for something.

    A sign I missed.
    A moment I could have handled differently.
    Something I should have said.
    Something I should never have said.

    I ask myself questions I will never have answers to:

    Could I have been a better wife?
    If I had done things differently… would he still be here?
    Did I miss something important?
    Was it me?

    These thoughts don’t come once.

    They come constantly.

    Day and night.

    Night and day.

    It’s like my mind is trying to rewrite the past.

    Trying to find a version of events where this didn’t happen.

    But there isn’t one.

    I know that nothing will change what has happened.

    I know that no amount of replaying will bring him back.

    I know that nothing will change what has happened.

    I know that no amount of replaying will bring him back.

    But knowing that…
    and feeling that…
    are two very different things.

    And now I live with the question:

    Why didn’t I see it?

    And now I live with the question:

    Why didn’t I see it?

    But right now, it doesn’t feel like something that will pass.

    It feels like something I have to carry.

    Some days it is quieter.

    Some days I can almost breathe around it.

    And then other days…

    It is overwhelming.

    And then other days…

    It is overwhelming.

    The kind of overwhelming that sits in your chest.

    That makes it hard to breathe.

    That makes everything feel heavy.

    And even though I know I loved him…

    Even though I know we had a life together…

    Even though I know I tried…

    It still doesn’t silence the guilt.

    There is also a part of me that knows the truth.

    A part of me that understands that I was not responsible for his decision.

    That I did not make that choice.

    But grief is not logical.

    And guilt does not listen to reason.

    So I sit between two realities.

    The one I know to be true.

    And the one my mind keeps telling me.

    So I sit between two realities.

    The one I know to be true.

    And the one my mind keeps telling me.

    If you are feeling this kind of guilt…

    If your mind is replaying everything…

    If you are asking yourself questions that have no answers…

    Please know this:

    You are not alone in that.

    This is a part of grief that people don’t talk about enough.

    The kind that lives in your thoughts.

    The kind that keeps you up at night.

    The kind that doesn’t just hurt…

    but questions everything.

    I don’t have the answer to how to make it go away.

    I don’t have a way to fix it.

    All I know is that this is how it feels.

    And if you feel this too…

    You are not alone.

    One day at a time.

  • This is not the story I ever thought I would have to tell

    This is not the story I ever thought I would have to tell

    This is not the story I ever thought I would have to tell.

    It began the day my world changed forever.

    3 February 2026.
    The day my husband took his own life.

    Today, it has been 1 month, 2 weeks and 2 days.

    Every day has been hard. Not just today. Every single day.

    Right now, this is all I am capable of:

    Waking up.
    Getting my girls ready for school.
    Crying on the way to work.
    Trying to function.
    Going home.
    Helping with homework.
    Getting everyone ready for bed.
    Sleeping.

    And then doing it all again the next day.

    I feel like a robot.
    I am not living—I am surviving.

    I cannot think about the future. I cannot process what has happened.
    This is all I can manage right now.

    Life did not stop.

    The first two weeks were filled with planning and arrangements. People coming in and out, offering condolences.

    Then the memorial service.

    Then straight back to work.

    At the same time, I had to pack up our home.

    I had to pack up my life.
    I had to pack up his things.

    Every moment of that was emotional.

    Now I am living with my parents, because financially I cannot afford to be on my own after losing my husband.

    When I am home, I am with my girls.

    And I want to be with them…

    But at the same time, I just want to lie in bed for a week and cry.

    There are moments that break me.

    Like getting a phone call from my daughter, crying because she is being shouted at.

    Like realising I am trying to hold everything together when I am completely falling apart inside.

    I don’t feel like the parent I want to be right now.

    I am trying to give my girls space to feel, to express themselves, to grow into who they are.

    But everything feels heavy. Everything feels hard.

    There is something I have been doing that has helped me, even if only a little.

    I send my husband messages on WhatsApp.

    Some days I can do it.
    Some days I can’t.

    But when I can, this is what I say:

    “I will never see you again.”
    “I forgive you.”
    “I will always love you.”
    “I miss you so much today.”
    “I wish you knew how many people loved you.”

    “Lilly hurt herself today… you would have been so calm.”
    “This child misses you so much… she just doesn’t know how to show it.”

    “I wish you were here.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “I will never have you back.”

    “How was your day?”
    “I hope you’re okay.”
    “I miss you.”
    “Goodnight my love.”

    Some days I ask questions.

    Was it you in my dreams?
    Are you okay?
    Can you see us?

    Some days I just sit in the silence.

    I am still trying to understand how this is my life now.

    How I am supposed to live without him.

    How I am supposed to raise our girls without him.

    There is not a second that goes by where I don’t think about him.

    Not a second where I don’t feel this loss.

    Not a second where my heart doesn’t ache.

    I don’t have answers.

    I don’t know how this ends.

    I don’t know how I get through this.

    One day at a time.