A Shift In The Light

Thoughts on Grief, Hope, and the Seasons We Carry

The sun crosses the equator at 1:05 am on 23 September 2026, bringing a fleeting moment of balance between day and night. (thanks Google).  For those of us living north of that invisible line, astronomical autumn will arrive, encouraging us to get out our jumpers and fluffy socks and whispering in our ear “Right then, snuggle up, let’s get comfy.”

The Autumn Equinox is often a moment which passes me by unnoticed, but this time it seems determined to bring the year into perspective.  I usually save this kind of reflection for New Year’s Eve, when I’m armed with a glass of the red stuff and a list of unrealistic resolutions - usually to do with weight loss and doing more exercise. But, just lately, I’ve been living in my own private equinox.  My own inner seasons have been shifting and I find that I am looking back at everything that has passed while trying to imagine what the next chapter might hold for me.

As many of you who are regular visitors to my blog already know, my dad died this year.  My mum has been gone for some time, but losing Dad somehow pulled her absence forward again.  Grief seems to have the mischievous habit of whispering loudly, “Surprise! Remember me?”  

This time my grief has manifested differently. Quietly, more thoughtfully. No tears, outbursts of overwhelming emotion - just an inner voice speaking in the quietness of the night. Many of you will recognise the strange kind of clarity that comes when you lose your last parent.  It shifts your sense of your place in the world and makes you notice your own aging in a way that is both sobering and oddly grounding.  My sisters and I are now “middle‑aged orphans.”  I realise that sounds abit like we should be dressed in rags and picking pockets in Victorian London, but in reality, it simply means we are daughters who suddenly have no parents to turn to. The baton has been passed, whether we feel ready or not. Now we stand at the front of the family, learning how to be the anchors we once relied on. Some days we are very wise and capable; other days we’re Googling things like “How do I mend a leaky toilet?" and wishing we could ring Dad.

And yet, the equinox is a reminder that with every ending there is a new beginning. For me, in the midst of loss, my granddaughter arrived. Her early arrival was unexpected and this tiny, determined, little girl brought with her a rush of hope that honestly took me by surprise. One minute I was in mourning for my Dad; the next, I was staring at a brand‑new human who squeaked like a baby velociraptor (her Mum's words not mine). In that moment I could see the generational relay so clearly: my parents have stepped off the track, my sisters and I are running our middle stretch (occasionally stopping for snacks and liquid refreshment), and this tiny girl is just beginning her warm‑up laps.

Even the outer edges of my life are shifting. Some family and friendships have begun to drift away like the autumn leaves letting go of branches. It's sad in a way, especially when I think of how close we once were and the good times we shared. But I hold on to the memories and let them go and this makes the friendships that remain feel even more precious - the ones who still send silly memes, who still check in, who still choose to stay through every season. Those people become your true north. Even those who often send random photos of their dinner for no apparent reason.

Through all of this, the love within my own family has been the constant. It is the place where the grief is shared and somehow seems to be less overwhelming. The bond we share does not erase the pain, but it does give it somewhere safe to rest. To care and be cared for is a great gift to have when the ground shifts beneath your feet. It reminds you that whatever changes, you still have a home - even if that home is full of people who forget where they put their keys and then find them in the fridge. (Nobody knows where the milk went).

So here I stand at the turning of the seasons. I am suspended between what was and what will be. I am a daughter without parents, a sister holding tightly to her sisters, a mother, a grandmother, and a friend. The equinox teaches that life is a beautiful, repeating circle. (Simba enter stage left). We don’t have to choose between grieving and celebrating - we can hold both. We can honour our parents while cradling our grandchildren. We can let go of what has passed whilst reaching out to the future and holding on tightly to what remains.

My throws are already collected in a messy nest on the sofa to protect me against the cold. The leaves will soon fall, the evenings will draw in, and the frost will lace the windows and pavements. But beneath the cold soil, next spring is already quietly forming and, as the year turns, I find myself turning with it - just a gentle shift, really - carrying something that feels like a quiet change happening somewhere I can’t quite see.

Image by Chatgbt