WALKING THROUGH GRIEF ONE STEP AT A TIME.

Losing two close family members so close together shatters you in a way that is hard to put into words. When my estranged dad died, and then my brother died just ten days later, it felt like my world tipped over. I was thrown into a storm of grief, confusion and disbelief. The pain was heavy, and the emotional weight sat on my chest. In the middle of that darkness, I found something to hold on to. Exercise and walking became more than an activity and suddenly became survival.

I have always lived and breathed fitness. I run my own business, I teach women every day, and I know the science behind movement. But when they died, I did not realise how deeply physical activity would save me. I am still grieving now. I am still waiting for a proper cry to come because it has not yet. I am still wishing I had a real hug from someone who understands it all. This is how grief pushed me into movement in a whole new way and how walking became my lifeline.

When loss happens suddenly

The phone calls came one after the other. Another piece of news I did not expect. Another emotion I never asked to feel. My relationship with my dad had been gone for years. My brother and I had nothing left to say to one another, either. Our childhood was chaotic, frightening at times and neglectful. We learnt to survive in separate ways, and none of us learnt how to be a family. Even so, when they died, it hit harder than I ever imagined. The shock was not only about losing them but about facing everything left unsaid. Every memory, every gap in our history, every part of me that still wanted something different.

Grief came in waves. Sometimes I felt nothing at all. Other times, I shouted at others, but still no tears came or have come. I could not focus, and sleep was impossible. Food became my emotional crutch. I could not explain what I felt because the grief was tangled. I did not know where to put my emotions because it never felt like it was my place to have them. I did not invite anyone to either funeral because I did not feel entitled to ask. In truth, I did not feel entitled to grieve two men who never wanted me in their lives. Yet my heart grieved anyway, and it still does. I still do not know where to place these feelings that have lingered. They have nowhere to land, so they sit deep inside me, waiting to explode. There is a permanent heaviness not only in my head but also in the pit of my stomach.

How exercise kept me standing

Movement was not a hobby or a job during that time. It was how I stayed upright when everything else fell apart.

It grounded me when nothing made sense.

It released the anger that had nowhere to go.

It gave me tiny pockets of relief from sadness.

It forced me to turn my focus outward rather than inward.

Even when I was exhausted, lifting weights or simply moving reminded me I was still here. Still breathing. Still surviving. Exercise became a way of taking care of myself when I did not know how to emotionally. And I still lean on it now when I have days where grief sits heavier than it did the day before.

The power of walking when everything hurts

Out of everything I did, walking surprised me the most.

I walked and walked. Sometimes with no plan, no route and no destination. I just moved my feet. That rhythm calmed me. The steady pace softened the panic inside my head.

There is something about walking that organises thoughts. It slows them down. It softens the noise.

I found Blythe Hill, and that hill became my place. I have lived in Forest Hill for over 30 years and have visited this green space many, many times, but for some reason, this hill calmed me and gave me the space I needed. The day my dad died, after the phone call, I walked straight there and sat. Ten days later, when my brother died, I took my eighty-one-year-old mum with me. Her pain was something I couldn't describe. Losing a child is not something the heart heals from. We stood on that hill together. We did not speak much. We just walked. I am so proud of my mum and how she has coped on the outside, even though I know she cries every day her door shuts.

Walking helped me in unexpected ways:

It cleared my mind

It connected me to nature

It lowered my stress

It gave me space without questions

It allowed me to exist without being seen

I felt invisible in the best possible way. No one needed anything from me. I did not need to explain. I could simply walk. I still walk when I need silence or when I am trying to find that cry that has not found its way out yet.

Where fitness and emotional healing came together

Because I know the body well, I knew when to push and when to stop. I breathed more deeply. I stretched longer, I attended Pilates classes for myself, and even took part in a breath workshop to help me breathe again and find the peace and love inside. I rested more when my body asked me to. I let myself have days I did nothing at all, even though it meant I lost money, as I am self-employed, but I just couldn't make others happy anymore. Healing is physical as much as emotional, and I honoured that balance.

How movement might help someone else in grief

If you have lost someone, movement may help you in ways you do not expect.

Start with ten minutes

Walk at a steady pace

Let your thoughts pass through you

Keep a simple routine

Move even when motivation is not there

Exercise does not fix grief. It does not remove pain. But it gives the mind space to sit with what hurts without drowning.

What grief has changed in me

I see fitness differently now. It is not about shaping the body or ticking off a session. It is a form of care. It is a way to express what cannot be spoken. It is a place to put emotion when emotion has no language.

Losing my dad and brother was devastating. But walking and movement helped me find moments of peace when the world felt cruel. I am still grieving and still wanting that hug that never came. I have learnt that strength is not always loud or confident. Sometimes it is quiet steps on a cold morning when you do not know how to carry on.

I moved through grief one step at a time and that rhythm is still saving me. I am still not fixed and I never will be but what I have learnt is "it is OK that you are not OK"

IN LOVING MEMORY OF THE FATHER I WISH I HAD HAD AND THE BROTHER I LOST ON THE WAY X