Episode 19: He's Like Me

A playdate that was never meant to be part of our story... and yet became one of the most important ones.

In this episode, I share what happened when Oscar met another little boy who had also lost his Daddy. What started as a simple meet-up turned into something much bigger. A quiet moment of connection, understanding, and the realisation that he's not the only one.

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Transcript

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Hello and welcome back to the Early Morning Coffee Club, the podcast where grief is intense, humour is finely ground, and strength stinks up on you like a double shot. How are we all doing this week? I'll go first. I am actually feeling a bit optimistic, which might mean that nothing terrible has happened today, and I've decided to take that as a win. I think it's also because of this gorgeous weather that we've been treated to this past week. It really just makes all the difference. Now this week's episode is about something that felt small at the time, but actually turned out to be something quite big. It's about introducing Oscar to another little boy who also lost his daddy. And even saying that out loud still feels surreal nearly 18 months later. Because it's not exactly the kind of playdate you ever imagine setting up when you become a parent. Now this all started on Instagram, as a lot of things seem to these days. Emily, Bodie's mum, also known as a widow rights, reached out to me. Just a message at first, simple, kind, honest, one of those messages where you instantly feel like, right, this person gets it. We started chatting back and forth, sharing little bits of our stories, the highs, the lows, obviously the completely unhinged thoughts that you don't really say out loud to people who haven't lived it. And then after a while, we realized that we only lived about 40 minutes away from each other, which in Widow World is basically next door. So we arranged to meet up. It was just us at first, no pressure, no expectations, just two mums navigating something incredibly hard. We met for a walk and a coffee, of course. And I knew that we were going to be friends within about 30 seconds because she sat down, reached in her bag, and pulled out a massive bag of mini eggs and just handed them to me like, here, these have been taking the edge off of me recently, and I thought you could do the same too. And I was like, yes, you are my kind of person, because nothing saves emotional support like aggressively eating a whole bag of mini eggs in silence at the end of a long day. We just clicked. There was no awkwardness, no explaining the backstory, no tiptoeing around words. We could just talk openly, honestly, and more importantly, we could laugh. And that felt so good. But the thing we both really wanted was for the boys to meet. Now I've met a lot of other young widows through different charities, like Widowed and Young, and those connections have been incredibly, incredibly important to me too. But this one felt different, because this wasn't just about me anymore, this was about Oscar. Oscar had met another little girl his age who had lost her mummy, and that was so lovely, but at three years old I don't think it quite landed for him, with her daddy still stood right in front of us looking at her. She was calling him daddy, and I could just see Oscar's confused little heartbreak that he couldn't call out for his own daddy. But this felt like something he might actually understand. Another little boy, the same age, the same kind of loss. So on the drive there I said to him, Oscar, we're going to meet Bodie today and his little sister Indy, and their mummy Emily. And Bodie's daddy died too, like your daddy. And I could literally see the clogs turning in his brain. You know that look when they're trying so hard to process something? But you can tell it's not quite clicking yet. And then he looked down at his t shirt and then back up at me and said Mummy, is he wearing the same clothes as me too? And honestly, it stopped me in my tracks, because in his little world the only person he knows whose daddy has died is him. So the idea that there could be another little boy who shares that meant in his three year old mind they must be exactly the same. Same clothes, same everything. It was such an innocent question, but also such a big one, because it showed me how he's trying to make sense of all of this. So I just said no, he might be wearing different clothes, but he's a little boy just like you. And it seemed to be enough. So anyway, we arrived, and I won't lie, I felt a bit nervous. Not for me, for Oscar. Because you don't know how something like this is gonna go. You don't know if it's going to feel heavy or confusing or emotional. But do you know what it was? It was just kids being kids. They got on instantly, straight onto their little bikes, racing around, laughing together, completely in their own little world. No big conversations, no deep emotional moment, just play. And me and Emily just stood there with Indy watching them. And there was this quiet understanding between us, because on the surface it just looked like two little boys playing. But underneath that there was something else. Something unspoken, a shared experience that neither of them fully understood yet. But somehow they're both carrying, and for the first time Oscar wasn't the only one. And I don't even know if he consciously realized that, but I think somewhere inside him something shifted, something settled. Because sometimes it's not about exploring things, it's about feeling them, and feeling that you're not alone. And that's what this felt like. The start of something really special. Not because it fixes anything, not because it takes the grief away, but because it adds something. Connection, understanding, and maybe as they grow up, a friendship that has this depth to it that most people their age won't even begin to understand. And for me, it reminded me of something important too. That even in the middle of something as isolating as grief, there are people out there who will find you, who will sit with you in it, and sometimes they'll even bring chocolate. Oscar. One day you might not remember this day. You might not remember the bikes or running around or how fast you went, like you had absolutely no fear, but I will. I'll remember watching you meet Bodhi for the first time. Watching you just be a little boy, laughing, playing, racing, like nothing in the world had ever hurt you. And I think that's what stayed with me the most. Not what you said, but what you didn't need to say. Because for a long time, you've been the only little boy I know walking through this kind of loss, and that's a heavy thing to carry. Even if you don't fully understand it yet. But on that day, you weren't the only one anymore, and I don't know if you felt it consciously or if it was just something quiet somewhere inside you. But I saw it. I saw how easily you connected, how natural it was, how there was no need to explain anything. And that's something really special because as you grow up, there'll be moments where you feel different moments where other children don't quite understand your story, where they don't know what to say, and that can feel lonely. But I want you to remember this there are people out there who will understand. People who won't need an explanation, people who just get it. And when you find them, hold on to them. Because those connections, the ones built on shared experience, even unspoken, they're rare and they're important. I hope Bodhi becomes one of those people for you. A friend you can laugh with, be silly with, grow up with, and maybe one day someone you can talk to about daddy. In your own time, in your own way, but more than anything, I hope you always know this. You are never alone in what you're feeling, even on the days it feels like you are. And I will always do everything I can to find you the people who remind you of that. So if you're listening to this and you feel like no one really gets it, like you're explaining yourself all the time, or holding parts of your story back because it feels too heavy, they might not be in your immediate world right now, but they do exist. And sometimes you find them in the most unexpected places. A message you almost didn't send, a conversation that just kind of happened, someone who shows up at exactly the right time. And when you find them, you'll feel it. Not in a big dramatic way, but in something much quieter. That ease, that understanding, that lack of needing to explain every detail, that moment of, oh, you too. Where you can say something and it doesn't get met with silence or panic or someone trying to fix it, just simply recognition. And there's something incredibly comforting in that because grief can feel so isolating, like you've been dropped into a version of life that no one else around you quite understands. But these people, they remind you that you're not the only one living in this version, and it doesn't fix everything, it doesn't take the pain away, it doesn't suddenly make things make sense, but it softens it. It gives you somewhere to put it down for a minute, somewhere you don't have to carry it on your own. And sometimes that's enough to get you through.