Every life is touched by loss at some point. Some losses are seismic…life-altering, identity-shifting, world-rearranging. Others are small and quiet, almost imperceptible to anyone but us. Yet all of them matter. All of them deserve room.

During Grief Awareness Week, I want to offer a reminder that feels central to the ethos of This Mortal Life: Grief is a natural part of being human. It doesn’t need to be fixed, solved or pushed away. It needs room, recognition and companionship.

The act of making something: writing, stitching, collaging, painting, etc. engages parts of us that don’t always speak in clear sentences. Creativity allows our interior world to surface without needing to explain or justify it. It’s a language of colour, shape and texture that often feels safer, especially when touching on grief, identity, memory or endings.

As the year draws to its quiet close, we gather to mark the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year and the turning point toward the returning light. Across cultures and centuries, this has been a time to pause, reflect, and honour both the darkness and the promise of renewal.

What’s it look like to explore themes of mortality and grief through reading? Here’s a curated mix of fiction and non-fiction titles to add to your ‘to be read’ pile, all exploring death, loss, grief and the practicalities around our cultural practices and rituals.

As we enter the Christmas season, let’s consider our priorities and how we can be more intentional in our gift giving.

A little insight into our recent Samhain Gathering at the Front Room theatre in Weston-Super-Mare. It was a magical evening of community and remembrance.

As the days shorten and the year begins its quiet turn toward winter, we are invited to slow down and look inward. The ancient festival of Samhain marks this time as one of remembrance; when the veil between the living and the dead is said to be thin, and we pause to honour those who came before us.

There’s a quiet revolution taking root, not in corporate boardrooms or our government’s offices (sadly!) but in gardens, art studios, neighbourhood parks and community projects. It’s a revolution that begins with small acts of care and imagination, where people are daring to envision a world that prioritises life, in all its forms, over profit.

As the year turns and the light begins to fade, we find ourselves standing at a threshold: the space between autumn and winter, life and death, what has been and what is yet to come. Across centuries and cultures, this time has always been understood as one of reflection, remembrance and renewal.

Here in the northern hemisphere, Samhain marks the end of the harvest season and the beginning of the darker half of the year. It is a moment to pause, to take stock and turn inward to honour the cycles of life that hold us all.

To mark the Autumn Equinox we held a gathering on the beach, connecting with nature and welcoming the seasonal changes as we looked towards the darker months of the year. We were blessed with a calm breeze and a nearly cloudless sky to enjoy a meditative nature walk, the creation of a nature-based art installation and a bring-and-share feast around the fire. We reflected on our experiences of the year so far and gave ourselves permission to be present with ourselves, each other and the sounds of the waves as high tide rolled in.

Twenty years is a long time, and yet it passes so quickly. Today marks two decades since I first set foot in the UK. What was meant to be a ten-month gap year became something altogether different and unexpected. If I’ve learned anything over the past couple of decades, it’s that life rarely unfolds as planned.

I’ve been struck in recent years by the lack of care many of us hold for one another. Whether it’s central government continually targeting the most vulnerable in society with their never ending austerity-led cuts or the rampant consumerism that’s overtaking every aspect of our lives, we are fast losing the sense of community upon which we used to rely to help us out in our time of need.

I think as a society we’ve trained ourselves to push past endings as quickly as possible and focus our sights on the new beginnings ahead. Whether it’s the experience of job losses, losing a home, a business, the end of a cherished relationship or long-held dreams, it’s all part of life.

The role of a doula is nothing new. For as long as humans have lived in community, there have been those who quietly and steadfastly walked alongside others through life’s most profound thresholds. Just as every village had a healer or spiritual guide, there were always people, often women, who knew how to tend to a birthing mother, or how to sit with the dying, offering comfort, practical support and a steady presence. These were community roles, passed down through observation, experience and care, rather than through formal qualifications. They belonged to the fabric of daily life, woven into the rhythms of birth, death, and everything in between.

Have you noticed how the concept of connection has gradually become a lost art form since the pandemic? So many of us got used to not leaving the comfort of our homes during those long, uncertain lockdowns; and now, five years on, it seems fewer and fewer people are gathering, sharing, or simply being together in the ways we once took for granted.