From April last year, I was on a plane to Norway every couple of months.
Not for a holiday.
Not to rest.
But because my baby brother had died. And my other brother, his heart breaking from grief and divorce, needed me.
So I flew back and forth, held space, sorted things, and made things happen. Because that’s what I do. I fix. I hold everyone up. I show up.
Even when I’m falling apart inside.
No one really saw my pain. Not properly. I was the strong one.
But I was grieving too. Grieving so hard I couldn’t speak about it without crying.
He wasn’t just my brother.
He was my boy.
I raised him. Protected him. Laughed with him. He was my soft place to land.
He was this big, gentle giant, over six feet tall, and when he hugged me, my whole body disappeared into his chest. He never pulled away. Never let go too soon. I could stand in his arms forever and feel completely safe. That kind of hug? It’s irreplaceable.
And now he’s gone. And nothing feels the same.
But here’s the difference between then and now: this time, I’m flying to Norway for me.
In a couple of days, I’ll be in the Norwegian Highlands, in a quiet cabin surrounded by pine trees and silence. No to-do list. No one to fix. No one to save.
Just me. My grief. My healing. My journal. My soul.
I’m going to reflect on the last eight months, not from a place of pain, but from a place of honouring how far I’ve come.
And then, I’ll begin gently planning the rest of the year, not based on goals or pressure, but on how I want to feel.
This trip isn’t about healing anyone else.
It’s about remembering myself.
And I’m finally letting that be enough.
Journaling Prompt:
Where in my life have I been carrying the weight for others? What would it look like to choose something just for me?
Inspired Action:
Take ten minutes to write a short love letter to your past self, the one who held everything together when no one else saw how heavy it was. Tell her you see her now.
Need a soft space to land in the middle of it all?
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