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Always With Me

A gentle note on how love continues, not in the past, but in every step forward

As the years move on, I’ve come to understand something quietly comforting — you’re not behind me, and I’m not walking away from you. You’re woven into everything I do, everything I feel, everything I hope for. You’re not a memory I visit; you’re a presence I carry.

You’re part of my days now, part of my thoughts, part of the way I see the world. And as I grow older, I’m not drifting further from you — I’m moving closer, step by gentle step. Love doesn’t stay in the past. It walks with us, shaping who we are and who we become.

You’re still part of everything, my darling. Not gone. Not distant. Just held differently now — in my heart, in my future, and in every quiet moment in between.

Love Nannie Angie xx

My Sunday Place

A quiet note on the peace found in tending the spaces where love still lives

“Every Sunday, I go to your sleeping place — our little corner of the world that feels like it belongs just to us. I tidy your bench, brush the leaves away, and make sure your wildlife area is ready for all the visitors who come to share the space with you. The birds, the squirrels, even the badgers and hedgehogs we’ve seen on the cameras — they’ve all become part of your story now, part of the life that continues around you.

I clean your headstone with the same quiet care I would have given if you were close by — the way I’d naturally fuss over you and make sure everything around you felt safe and warm, with the gentle attention only a Nan gives. Then I sit with you for a while. No rush. No noise. Just the quiet knowing that this is our time.

I’ve been there in sunshine, rain, frost, and wind — nothing has ever stopped me going, because it’s where I feel closest to you. It’s my happy place, my peaceful place, the place where love settles softly and reminds me that you’re still with me in all the ways that matter.”

Love, Nannie Angie xx

The Christmas Aisle Realisation

A reflection on the moments that remind us how love and loss walk beside each other

I remember a moment when grief caught me completely off guard. I was shopping for a Christmas present for Saxon, choosing something bright and playful from the toy aisle. He’s Lucian’s little brother, when a quiet realisation settled over me — one that stopped me in my tracks. It arrived softly, but it still hurt, a truth I hadn’t prepared myself for.

I stood there among the toys, holding a gift in my hands, and felt tears rise. Not a sob, not a scene, not even out of weakness — just a quiet ache that slipped out because love sometimes does that.

From now on, I would be buying Saxon’s gifts from toy shops… and Lucian’s from the garden centre. One child’s presents wrapped for excitement, the other chosen for a place of rest.

That moment reminded me that grief isn’t loud. It doesn’t always arrive on anniversaries or special days. Sometimes it finds us in the middle of an ordinary aisle. It lives in the spaces where love still reaches — and in that small, unexpected moment, love found me and reminded me of all I carry.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

Navigating the Hardest Days

Finding Strength in Small Moments

Sometimes the hardest days don’t arrive with warning. They just appear — a memory, a date, a quiet moment that suddenly feels heavier than the rest. After thirteen years without Lucian, grief isn’t new to me. It’s woven into the shape of my life now, familiar in a way I never expected it to be.

What I’ve learned is that I don’t need to fight it. I don’t need to pretend I’m fine or push the feelings away. When the sadness rises, I let it. I allow myself to feel the ache, the memories, the longing. I don’t hide from it — I meet it like an old friend who knows me better than anyone else ever could.

There are days when I sink into it fully, when I let myself sit in the quiet and feel everything I need to feel. I don’t shame myself for it. I don’t rush myself out of it. I give myself permission to “wallow,” if that’s what it looks like from the outside — but I know it’s really just me honouring my love for him.

The difference now is that I don’t unpack and live there. I visit the grief, but I don’t stay. I trust that the wave will pass, because it always does. I’ve learned its rhythm. I’ve learned that letting myself feel is what helps me move forward, not what holds me back.

This is how I navigate the hardest days: by allowing, not resisting. By embracing, not avoiding. By remembering that grief isn’t the enemy — it’s the echo of a love that never had the chance to grow in the way I imagined but still lives in me all the same.

And somehow, in those small moments of honesty and softness, I find strength again.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

I’ve been thinking today about how differently we all experience grief. Not as something to “get over” or “move through,” because that makes it sound like there’s an ending, a finish line, a point where the ache disappears. For me, grief has never been a destination. It’s a path I was placed on the day Lucian died — a path I’ve learned to walk with love, softness, and acceptance.

Some people walk their path quietly. Others speak openly. Some cry often. Some rarely do. Some hold their memories close; others share them freely. And every one of those ways is valid. No one has the right to decide how another person should feel, heal, or remember.

Grief isn’t a straight line. It isn’t a rulebook. It isn’t something you complete. It’s a landscape we each navigate in our own rhythm, with our own heart, in our own time. What brings comfort to one person may feel impossible to another — and that doesn’t make either of them wrong.

There is a quiet strength in honouring your own way of grieving, even when it doesn’t look like anyone else’s. And there is kindness in allowing others the same freedom.

Love, Nannie Angie xx

Introducing a New Thread

A Glimpse into My Army‑Wife Years

Most of what I’ve shared here so far has been about my journey as a Nan to my grandson in heaven — the grief, the love, the reflections, and the quiet moments that shaped me. But like all of us, I have other chapters that made me who I am today.

One of those chapters was my life as an army wife. It was a world of routines, separations, friendships, challenges, and unexpected strength. One day, I hope to write it fully in my memoir, “Wife of 5347.” For now, the book is only an outline — a seed waiting for its time — but the memories are still with me, and some of them feel ready to be shared.

So, every now and then, I’ll post small reflections from that part of my life — gentle glimpses, not the whole story. Just moments that shaped me long before grief did. Moments that taught me resilience, patience, and the quiet strength I didn’t know I had.

It won’t replace what I already write. It will simply sit alongside it, another thread in the tapestry of my life. Another path that shaped the woman, the Nan, and the writer I’ve become.

Love,
Angie xx