Caregiving and grief changed me in ways I could never imagine
I’m Harley, a grief coach for caregivers, because I was one. Everything I do now comes from what I lived through.
November 1:1 spaces are open, if you’re ready for some support of your own
November 1:1 spaces are open, if you’re ready for some support of your own
The version of me before grief
There was a time before grief, when I was a people-pleaser, climbing the corporate ladder and doing all the 'things' that were expected of me.
Then grief arrived, not once but five times.
And everything changed, including me
The losses that changed everything
In four and a half years, I lost five people I loved.
In November 2019, my uncle died by suicide. I was the one who found out, and the one who had to tell my nan and grandad that their only son had gone. On the Monday morning, I went into the office, because “uncle” doesn’t count for bereavement leave.
My grandad never really recovered. He was in and out of hospital the following year, but he made it home for Christmas 2020, by the skin of his teeth. Being Cypriot, he was Christmas mad, so I bought him a tree and decorated it before he got home. He walked through the door, cried, and said it was the most beautiful tree he’d ever seen. Then he put me to work on the turkey and made me write down every one of his instructions. I still have them.
Two days later, he went back into hospital. He tested positive for Covid, and we weren’t allowed to see him. I just know he would have wanted us there to hold his hand. He deserved that, at the very least. Instead, he died alone on a ward.
The day he went into hospital, I moved in with my nan. That was the start of three years of caring for her. I kept it all going: the medication, the appointments, the work deadlines. And I fell apart in the gaps. A panic attack in the car before the office. Tears on my lunch break. A pep talk before walking into her room, just in case.
While I was caring for her, I lost my other uncle and my other nan too. I remember the day both my nans were in the same hospital. I went from one end to the other to be with both of them. Except one of them didn’t come home.
I didn’t grieve them at the time. I couldn’t. My body shut it down to protect me, because there was no capacity left to feel another loss. Caring for my nan became my coping mechanism, without me even realising it.
There was never any space to grieve any of it.
If any of this brings something up for you, please reach out for support.
UK and Ireland: Samaritans, free, any time, on 116 123
Cyprus: Cyprus Samaritans, free, on 8000 7773 (every day, 4pm to midnight)
Anywhere else: findahelpline.com lists free helplines in your country
Then she died, and so did the version of me that cared for her
When my nan died in 2024, I didn’t just lose her. I lost the person who showed up for her every single day, the one thing that gave me purpose. And all the grief that came before hit me at once.
I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know what I needed. The lights were on but no-one was home.
What I didn’t understand then is that grief isn’t just an emotion. It’s a physiological response that takes over your whole body. Your nervous system floods with stress hormones. Your brain, which spent years wired around caring for them, has to relearn a world where they’re not there. After years in survival mode, it can feel a lot like trauma. Your exhaustion makes complete sense.
I don’t know about you, but half the time I couldn’t even put into words how I felt. That’s why talking about it wasn’t enough. My grief lived in my body: the heaviness in my chest, the lump in my throat, the jaw I didn’t realise I was clenching. The fog that made me lose words mid-sentence. The way my heart jumped every time the phone rang.
I wasn’t broken. My nervous system was protecting me, and I had to learn to speak its language.
And from the darkness, Glimmers Through Grief was born
On the darkest days, I started noticing tiny things. The sunshine. The birds singing. Brushing my teeth, if it was one of those days.
Slowly, they built, until the world looked a little less dark. That’s where Glimmers Through Grief comes from.
Grief changed me in ways I’m still unravelling. I think I always will be, and that’s okay.
I learnt I could be cracked wide open and put back together again, just in a different way.
The support I wish I’d had while caregiving
When I realised I was on a path to self-destruction, I knew I needed support. That’s when I reached out to my grief coach.
I literally can’t tell you how many times I said to her, “I wish I’d had you back then, when I was caring for Nan.” So that’s exactly what I’ve created here. A place where lived experience meets professional training, and where your grief, and everything in between, can be witnessed by a real human who gets it.
I’m an accredited, trauma-informed grief coach (ACCPH and IPHM), a Mental Health First Aider and Zero Suicide Awareness trained.
You don’t have to do this alone.