Life lately has felt slower, heavier—like every step carries the echo of something missing. It has been a week since Millie died, and already the days have taken on a different rhythm. The silence is louder. The house feels unfamiliar. Yet within the weight of grief, I’ve noticed how even the smallest moments of tenderness matter more than ever.

Sunday Slow Diary

Quiet Spaces

This week, the quiet has been both unbearable and strangely sacred. There were moments when I caught myself glancing at the kitchen door, expecting Millie to be waiting there as she always did, her bell chiming softly as if to remind me I wasn’t alone. Instead, only stillness. And yet, in that stillness, I’ve learned that memory can be as present as breath. Her absence reshapes the air, but her love lingers everywhere.

Shared Grief, Shared Strength

Jan has carried his grief in ways that undo me—silent sobs in the shower, long pauses in the middle of conversations, as if the words just won’t come. Watching him break has made me break, too. But grief shared is grief halved, even if only by a fraction. We’ve sat together in the evenings, not always talking, sometimes just letting the tears fall quietly. There’s comfort in knowing we are not alone in this ache.

Small Distractions

Friends have visited, some with food, others with laughter. At first, I felt guilty for even smiling, as though joy would betray the depth of my grief. But I’ve come to realise that laughter doesn’t erase love—it honours it. Millie gave us so much joy, and she would have wanted that joy to continue, even in small doses.

Tokens of Healing

This week we brought home two kittens—tiny, fragile, and innocent. They don’t replace Millie, and they never will. But in their playfulness, their clumsy curiosity, they’ve given us something to hold onto. A reason to get out of bed, to care again, to laugh at their little antics. It feels like starting a new chapter we weren’t ready for, but perhaps that’s what healing looks like—imperfect, unplanned, but necessary.

What I’m Learning

Grief is not linear. It doesn’t obey logic or routine. One minute you’re making coffee, the next you’re sobbing into your hands because the kitchen is too quiet without the sound of tiny paws. But if there’s one lesson this week has pressed into me, it’s this: love does not end when life does. The ache we carry is proof of the bond we had.

Happiness, right now, is not loud or obvious. It’s in the quiet resilience of showing up to another day. It’s in the way memory softens the sharp edges of grief, even just for a moment. It’s in the small comforts—a warm drink, a shared meal, a kitten curled up against your arm.

Because life is not just about the big celebrations. Sometimes it’s about finding courage in the quietest places, choosing to carry love forward even when it hurts.

And so, this week, my Sunday slow diary is simple: grief and gratitude sitting side by side. A reminder that even in loss, love remains the thread that stitches us back together.

Music On Repeat This Week

• Fix You – Coldplay (because grief feels lighter when someone sings the words you can’t)
• Supermarket Flowers – Ed Sheeran (a song about loss that feels too close, yet still healing)
• The Night We Met – Lord Huron (for the ache of wishing for one more moment)
• Blessings – Laura Story (a quiet prayer for strength in the storm)

Reading/Watching Corner

• The Housemaid by Freida McFadden — sharp, unsettling, and strangely grounding; a reminder that not all struggles are visible at first glance.
• Three more Freida McFadden thrillers — devoured one after the other, each one addictive and thought-provoking in its own way.
• 48 Laws of Power — not an easy read, but one that makes me reflect deeply on human behavior and the unseen forces that shape our days.
• Bon Appétit, Your Majesty — lighthearted and comforting, proof that sometimes joy is found in stories that taste as warm as home-cooked meals.

Grateful For

• Friends who show up with food, laughter, and quiet presence
• The comfort of books and music in the hardest hours
• Long walks and cups of coffee that help soften heavy evenings
• The two kittens who remind us that love expands, even through grief
• Jan—my steady anchor, even while grieving beside me
• And Millie, always Millie, whose memory has not left the house but now lives in every quiet corner