Solo Mum, Steeled Heart: Parenting Wisdom After Losing My Husband at 39

09/01/2025

I stepped into motherhood with 🌞 rose-tinted optimism. I truly believed baby George would glide into the world and I’d float through sunny afternoons in linen, cradle a cooing infant 👶, and maybe feature in a dreamy slow-motion montage.

Reality check! 😅 Motherhood arrived five minutes late, dripping with spit-up, sweat, and the occasional tear. No linen, no glamour—just me, a leaking body, and a to-do list that never slept. ⏰

Reality check!

One month before that chaos, my husband David was diagnosed with a brain tumour. After George was born, further tests confirmed it was malignant and doctors estimated he had less than ten years. ⚠️ It felt like the floor kept tilting beneath our feet; every time we steadied ourselves, it shifted again.

Miraculously, David gave us eleven precious years. That extra time allowed for tear-soaked talks, fierce hugs, and the rare gift of saying goodbye. Yet watching a child carry grief in his eyes is 💔 soul-splitting.

When David was alive, I played emotional referee 🤼‍♀️—shielding both him and George from stormy feelings that could trigger seizures and hospital trips. Once he was gone, the dam burst.

The weeks after the funeral were a fog. George returned to school, I went back to work, but ordinary tasks became mountains 🏔️. Matching socks to uniforms felt Olympian; cooking dinner, Herculean. Life’s rhythm—school bells, rubbish collection, bedtime—marched on while I stumbled to the beat.

Slowly, new habits sprouted. Extra uniforms trimmed laundry panic, meal-kit subscriptions rescued dinner, and I clawed back work-life balance. Summer adventures David had dream-boarded for us still happened: Scotland’s misty lochs, Northern Ireland’s rugged coast, the Gone Wild Festival 🎪, and splash-happy days at Center Parcs. The duo of 46-year-old me and 11-year-old George learned to lean in—sometimes literally on rainy hikes! 🌧️

Our route wasn’t tidy. Regrets—sharp words said, cuddles missed—stung. But love cushioned the bruises. We learned that everyone hauls invisible baggage, and every family is improvising day-by-day.

I’m still waiting for that linen-clad, soft-focus moment. Until then, solace looks like a generous gin-and-tonic with friends 🍸, shared laughter echoing through the kitchen. Glamour? Maybe not. Healing? Absolutely.



Clare Campbell-Cooper’s new book “Choosing to Float” is out now (£8.99, Amazon UK). She’s donating at least 10 % of her net royalties to Brain Tumour Research.