Still a Nan, Always & Forever

Carrying love beyond loss

Being a Nan is something that settles into your heart in a way that never leaves. It doesn’t stop because life changes, and it doesn’t fade because someone you love is no longer here. That love becomes part of who you are — woven into your days, your memories, and the way you move through the world.

I’ve learned that grief doesn’t take away the title of Nan. It simply asks you to carry it differently. Some days it feels gentle, like a soft whisper of love. Other days it feels heavier, like a weight you weren’t ready for. But even in the hardest moments, the bond remains. Love doesn’t disappear; it transforms, deepens, and becomes something you hold quietly inside.

I still think of him. I still talk to him in my own way. I still feel proud of the love we shared. And in those moments — the remembering, the smiling, the aching, the holding on — I realise I am still a Nan. Not just in the past, but in the present. In the way I love. In the way I carry him with me.

Maybe you’ve felt this too — that even after loss, the love stays. It becomes part of your identity, part of your story, part of your heart’s landscape. We don’t stop being who we are just because life has changed. We learn to walk with love and loss side by side.

I am still a Nan because love doesn’t end.
I am still a Nan because my heart remembers.
I am still a Nan — always and forever.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

What I’ve Learned About Grief: Love Transforms, but It Never Fades
A deeply emotional reflection on grieving at your own pace

Grief has taught me many things — none of them simple, and none of them quick. It isn’t something you “get over,” and it isn’t something that follows a neat path. It’s a journey that moves in waves, sometimes gentle, sometimes overwhelming, and always shaped by the love that came before it.

What I’ve learned is that grief doesn’t take love away. It changes it. It softens it, stretches it, reshapes it into something you carry differently. Some days it feels like a quiet ache, a reminder of what once was. Other days it feels like warmth — a memory that makes you smile before the tears come. And both of those feelings are okay. Both are part of love finding a new place to live inside you.

There’s no timetable for healing. No rulebook. No “right way” to feel. I’ve had days where I’ve felt strong and steady, and others where the smallest thing has brought me to my knees. But I’ve learned to stop judging myself for that. Grief isn’t a sign of weakness — it’s a sign that love was real, deep, and life‑changing.

Over time, I’ve realised that love doesn’t fade just because someone is no longer here. It transforms. It becomes the way you speak their name, the way you remember their smile, the way you carry their story forward. It becomes the way you live your life with a little more tenderness, a little more awareness of what truly matters.

Maybe you’ve felt this too — that grief isn’t about forgetting, but about learning to hold love in a new way. It’s about giving yourself permission to feel everything, at your own pace, without pressure or expectation.

Love doesn’t disappear.
It simply changes shape.
And in that transformation, it stays with us — quietly, faithfully, forever.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

The Backpack I Never Chose: Learning to Carry Grief

A personal reflection on the weight of love and loss

Grief arrived in my life without warning — sudden, silent, and impossibly heavy. It settled onto my shoulders like a backpack I never chose, one I didn’t see coming and certainly wasn’t prepared to carry. Yet there it was, strapped tightly against my back, refusing to be removed. And so, I had to learn how to live with it, how to move with it, how to breathe with it.

In time, I began to understand that this backpack wasn’t empty. It was filled with stones — each one representing a part of my grief. Some days, those stones feel like huge, unmovable boulders, pressing down so hard that I can barely stand. On other days, they shrink into small pebbles, still present, still felt, but easier to carry. But whether they are boulders or pebbles, they are always there — the stones of love, memory, longing, and loss that I carry with me every single day.

At first, the weight was unbearable. The straps dug into my shoulders, the heaviness wrapped itself around my chest, and every step felt like an uphill battle. I wasn’t prepared for this burden, and it seeped into every part of me, making it hard to breathe, let alone move forward.

But slowly — painfully, gently — my body learned to adapt. I didn’t become stronger because the weight lessened. I became stronger because I learned how to carry it. I learned how to shift it, how to balance it, how to walk with it instead of fighting against it.

On special days — his birthday, Christmas, the anniversaries that still take my breath away — the weight intensifies. The stones inside feel like boulders again, sharp and heavy, demanding to be acknowledged. On those days, I instinctively stand taller, adjust my shoulders, and brace myself for the extra weight. I know it’s coming, and I honour it.

On other days, the weight softens. The stones become pebbles, still there but lighter, allowing me to move more freely. The heaviness ebbs and flows — sometimes a crushing force, sometimes a quiet presence.

Despite the pressure, there is an honour in carrying this backpack. It represents the depth of my love and the irreplaceable loss that shaped my life. This silent companion, though uninvited, is a testament to the bond I will always cherish with Lucian. It moulds my path, shapes my heart, and influences the way I move through the world.

I’ve realised that grief isn’t something to conquer. It’s something to live with — something uniquely mine. And though the weight never disappears, I’ve learned to carry it with love, with dignity, and with the quiet strength of a Nan who will always remember.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

Signs From Our Loved Ones: Do They Send Us Messages?

A reflective piece on the moments that remind us, love continues

As I sat by Lucian’s sleeping place this Sunday, I found myself wondering where he was in that moment — with me, with his mum, or somewhere I can’t quite understand. Just as that thought crossed my mind, a robin landed near my shoulder, close enough that I felt its presence before I even turned my head. It looked straight at me, held my gaze for a heartbeat, and then flew off again. And that tiny moment opened a whole flood of questions inside me.

There are moments in grief that feel almost like whispers — a bird landing beside you, a familiar song drifting through the air, a feather on the path, a sudden warmth that settles on your skin. So many people who’ve lost someone they love have moments like this, and they quietly ask themselves the same question I do every Sunday at Lucian’s sleeping place:

“Is that them… or is it just me wanting it to be them?”

I have this tug of war inside my heart. Grief isn’t just sadness — it’s wondering, hoping, doubting, noticing, longing, and trying to make sense of a world that keeps moving even when someone you love is no longer here. Every time a robin appears beside me, looks straight at me, and then flies off, something inside me stirs. I find myself asking:

Is it a sign?
Am I imagining it?
But I don’t believe in coincidences…
Maybe one day I’ll know.

These are the quiet battles grief brings — the questions with no clear answers, the moments that feel like comfort wrapped in mystery. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe love finds its own way to reach us, in ways we recognise only with our hearts.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

Sometimes I think cemeteries might be some of the most loving places we have, and hold more love than people realise. Fresh flowers rest on graves tended for decades, lanterns glow softly at dusk, and photos smile from headstones. The whole place feels wrapped in peace. It reminds me that even in the stillness, love continues to speak.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

The Moment I Stepped Up
A gentle reflection on the quiet strength we find when love asks us to be steady

There was a time when I stepped into the role my daughter needed, even though inside I felt anything but steady.

I held myself still so she could fall apart, keeping my own heart quiet until she was safely held. Looking back, I didn’t realise how strong I was — how much love was carrying me.

I learned to hold my own grief softly so I could hold hers fully. And now, with distance and clarity, I can see it for what it was: love making me stronger than I ever expected. It taught me that quiet strength is still strength.

Love Nannie Angie xx