The Day the World Kept Going Without Harry

What does grief feel like in the very beginning… when everything still feels unreal?

In this deeply personal first episode of Grieving Greatly, I share the story of losing my son, Harry, suddenly—just before Christmas—and the shock that followed.

The world kept moving. People kept talking. Life continued as if nothing had changed. But mine had completely stopped.

Harry was the most beautiful little boy—he loved animals, especially ladybugs and turtles, and he brought so much light into our lives. When he died, that light was gone, and our family was left shattered.

I open up about what those early days of grief really felt like—the numbness, the disorientation, and the unbearable reality of learning to live without him. I also talk about the well-meaning things people say in grief… and why they can feel so isolating when you’re in the middle of it.

If you’re grieving, or supporting someone who is, this episode will help you feel less alone—and better understand what grief truly looks like at the beginning.

This is not about fixing grief.
 It’s about sitting in it… together. 

Hosted by Jen Connors, from Harry’s Helping Hands Grief & Loss Counselling 0431212575

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🎧 Listen now.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Like a turtle moving steadily forward, I've learned that grief doesn't have to be rushed. We move at our own pace. People kept telling me to be strong, or worse, that I was strong, and I hated that. Because the truth was I didn't even recognize myself anymore. The strangest part wasn't the sadness, it was how normal everything else felt. It was close to Christmas, lights were up, people were shopping, life was moving forward like nothing had happened. But my son had just died. And I remember thinking, how is the world still going when mine has completely stopped? I have to admit I was nervous about starting this podcast. I kept asking myself, what do I have to offer that hasn't already been said? But then I realized why compare? Grief isn't something that can be compared. Every story is different. Every loss is different. Every experience is deeply personal. My voice is unique, my story is unique, and my grief is unique, and so is yours. So instead of comparing, let's come together to learn to understand and support one another. Because while grief is heavy and complex, there is a way to move through it with strength, meaning, and connection. This is about learning how to grieve greatly. Not because grief is easy, but because your love, your loss, and your story deserve to be honored. Hi and welcome to Grieving Greatly. This is a space for the parts of grief we don't always say out loud. The shock, the confusion, the things that just don't make sense. And especially the moments where you feel like you're the only one feeling what you're feeling. You're not. In this first episode, I want to take you back to the very beginning of grief. The shock. And some of the things people say that can hurt more than help. My son passed away suddenly 18 years ago. It was shocking, life altering, and it tore me and my entire family apart. There's just no way to prepare for something like that. One moment he was here and the next he wasn't. He was always by my side from the very beginning. He was born with a club foot, wore a brace constantly, had breathing problems, sleep apnea, and we were just so close. I was always with him, caring for him, watching over him. And when he died, it didn't just feel like I lost my child. It actually felt like a part of my body and my soul had been ripped away. He was the most beautiful boy. He loved animals, especially ladybugs and turtles. He brought so much joy into our world just by being in it. He had this light about him, something you can't really explain, but you feel it.

SPEAKER_01 4:08

And that light was suddenly gone. Brutally.

SPEAKER_00 4:15

And in those early days, the shock is like nothing you've ever experienced. I think people expect grief to look like crying all the time, but in the beginning it's often not that. It looks like forgetting what you were doing mid-task. Walking into a room and not knowing why. Feeling completely exhausted without doing anything. Or feeling nothing at all. And that nothing feeling can be really scary. You start to wonder why am I not more upset? But that numbness is your mind protecting you. I remember at Harry's funeral someone said to me there's no way I could have done that. They were talking about me standing up, reading the eulogy, talking to Harry, taking over when his father couldn't continue. But for me, that was the last thing I could do for Harry. I really wanted to share him with the world, to honour him, to speak for him. And there's something important. Shock doesn't always look like falling apart. Sometimes it looks like functioning. Shock isn't just emotional, it's physical. I remember going to the doctor, doubled over in pain, thinking something was seriously wrong. But it wasn't something to fix. It was grief. At the time, what I was feeling wasn't something to fix. It was a normal human response to a traumatic loss. Your body just doesn't understand what's just happened. You might feel numb, overwhelmed with pain, disoriented, like you're fully inside your own life. I remember thinking this can't be real, and then slowly realizing it was. And then there are other things people say. He's in a better place. Everything happens for a reason. At least anything starting with at least can hurt. At least you have other children. I remember thinking, well, which one of yours would you choose to lose? Or at least you can have more children.

SPEAKER_01 7:10

But no one can be replaced.

SPEAKER_00 7:16

Looking back now, I understand people mean well, but they just don't know what to say. They're trying to make something unbearable feel a little more bearable. And honestly, it's hard. Some people even avoided me completely because they didn't know what to say, and I totally get that now, looking back. I understand people mean well, they just don't know what to say. But when you've just lost your child, there are no words that can fix that. And sometimes those words make you feel more alone. Because all you actually actually need in that moment isn't perspective, it isn't answers, it's not explanations, it's not silver linings, it's presence. You don't need someone to explain your grief. You need someone to sit with you in the reality of what has just happened. And if you've ever felt guilty for reacting badly or for wanting people to just stop talking, you're not a bad person. You're grieving. In the beginning, grief isn't something you handle. It's something you survive. There is no right way to grieve, no timeline, no correct response. Only your way, moment by moment. I want to share something very raw, and if this feels like too much, it's okay to pause and to come back. To my special little man, it feels like someone is running a knife around my stomach and slicing into me deeper and deeper. Realizations hit me all the time, and I feel like I am choking. The knowledge that you are no longer here is too much to bear. I can't get enough air into my chest and I feel tears well up and my throat tighten all the time. I miss you so much. I want to end my life here on earth and come and be with you. I want to be with you so badly that I just want to get out of my body. I beg there must be something that will work to bring you back. This pain is eating me alive. I don't want to get through this. I don't want to be here without you another month or day or year or ten years from now. I want to hold you and experience life with you and to kiss your soft lips. I love you so much that I am now dead inside. I need to come you to come back to me and I am never going to be okay. I don't want to be. I don't want to be someone living through life with the death of the most important person in my world. I can't survive another day without you.

SPEAKER_01 10:34

Please come back. Love, mummy.

SPEAKER_00 10:42

I have many journal entries from that time, and they're hard to read, but they are honest, and that's the gentle crude truth. Grief, especially in the beginning, is not neat or controlled or composed. It is raw, it is overwhelming, and sometimes it is unbearable. One of the most important things we can do is not keep it all inside. Some of that pain needs somewhere to go. That might look like talking, writing, letting the words come out exactly as they are, even if it's messy, even if it doesn't make sense. I once had a client tell me they wrote swear words on toilet paper and flushed them away. And honestly that's powerful. If you're at the beginning of grief right now, if everything feels surreal, too loud or completely wrong, I want you to hear this. Nothing about what you're feeling is wrong. Not the numbness, not the anger, not the confusion. You are not broken. You are grieving something that mattered deeply. And let's be real, grief really does suck. There's no other way to say it. Well there probably is, but I'd get in trouble from my mum for swearing, and I know she'll be listening to this. It's raw, it's brutal, and it changes everything. If you take nothing else from today, please know this. You are not alone. You might not be ready to talk yet, and that's okay. There were times I wanted to talk constantly, and other times I didn't want to see anyone at all. Grief moves like that. Your needs can change from moment to moment, and that's completely normal. But when you are ready, when you feel that small opening to reach out, just know there is support here. I understand how hard it can be to find someone who truly gets it, someone who has lived it, felt it, and can sit with you in it. I'm not going anywhere. I truly believe this is the work I'm meant to do. I feel it deeply, that my purpose is to support others through the hardest kind of grief, and help bring even the smallest sense of hope. So here I am, just me, an open book, ready to walk alongside you. And if today feels like too much, just focus on your next breath. That's enough. Losing my son changed my life forever. Eighteen years later he still teaches me about love, grief, and what it means to keep going. Thank you for being here today. I hope this gave you some comfort, some understanding, or even just a reminder that you are not alone. I carry Harry with me every moment, and through him I've learned that grief and love can exist side by side. So take a breath and notice something small today, maybe a turtle or a ladybug, or something quietly beautiful. And know this, you are seen, you are held. Before we finish, I want to leave you with something I hold close. You will always be enough for me, and you'll never be too much. For Harry and for anyone learning to live with loss, thank you for being here, truly. If this episode resonated with you, I'm really glad that you've found this space. And I'll be here with you in the next one. And just a gentle reminder, if today you brought up anything difficult, please reach out for support. You can contact me anytime or call Grief Australia on 1800-642066 or Lifeline Australia on 131114. You don't have to go through this alone.