This morning felt hard.

Fionn kicked up last night and neither of us slept particularly well. I’m not fully sure what was underneath it all. Maybe the exams he expected today. Maybe the transition back to his mum’s later. Maybe just exhaustion and overwhelm building quietly beneath the surface.

Whatever it was, the night felt unsettled.

This morning I woke him and, to his credit, he got up and had a shower. But while I was in the shower myself, he climbed back into bed and fell asleep again.

A few years ago I probably would have handled a morning like this very differently.

I think part of me always believed difficult situations needed to be pushed through immediately. Keep moving. Keep forcing forward. Don’t lose momentum.

But life — grief especially — has slowly taught me that people are not machines.

Sometimes systems get overloaded.
Sometimes bodies and minds need more time.
Sometimes adjusting the target is wiser than escalating the pressure.

So this morning I decided to leave him sleeping until 9:30 and then try for school at 10 instead.

Not giving up on the day.
Not pretending everything is fine.
Just adjusting.

And honestly, I’m exhausted too.

Last night was also my first night trying the new CPAP F40 mask. I still don’t know if it’s better or worse yet. Part of this whole process seems to involve constantly experimenting, adjusting, and trying to figure out what helps.

Maybe rebuilding life is a bit like that too.

Not dramatic breakthroughs.
Not sudden transformation.

Just small adjustments.
Small attempts.
Small acts of continuing.

The plan now is simple:
try get Fionn into school,
then meet Izabela and go to the gym.

Nothing extraordinary.

But more and more I’m beginning to think healing often looks exactly like this:
ordinary difficult mornings where you keep adapting instead of collapsing.

Update:
We didn’t make it to school today.

I tried encouraging Fionn until about 1pm, but there was no way to get him there.

As the morning went on, it became clearer that a big part of what was underneath things was anxiety around the Drumcondra tests happening today. He didn’t want to do them in class with everyone else and wanted instead to do them separately at another time.

I think moments like this are part of why parenting children through anxiety, grief or overwhelm can feel so difficult at times. From the outside it can simply look like “not going to school”, but underneath that can be fear, pressure, embarrassment, exhaustion or a nervous system that has simply tipped into overload.

Part of me still finds days like this hard. I still want to fix things, solve things, and somehow make everything ok immediately.

But I’m also learning that forcing someone through overwhelm rarely creates safety.

So today became less about “winning the battle” and more about trying to keep connection intact while helping him regulate enough to get through the day.

And actually, by the end of the day, there were still some positives.

Fionn spoke a bit about secondary school and said he feels like it might be a fresh start for him.

He also said he wants to try to get into school for the rest of the week while staying with his mom.

And despite how difficult the day felt at times, he still did 20 minutes of guitar practice this afternoon.

A few years ago with Haze and Brooke I probably wouldn’t even have noticed moments like that. I would have only focused on the fact that school didn’t happen.

But maybe progress is sometimes quieter and more complicated than that.

Maybe some days progress is simply:
holding onto hope,
keeping connection,
and ending the day in a slightly better place than it began.

Darkness Into Light 2026

On Friday night — or, as Fionn kept reminding me, Saturday morning — Fionn and I walked Darkness Into Light together.

For the last four years I signed up for this walk and never managed to do it. Every year I wanted to walk for Haze, and every year it felt too heavy, too painful, or simply beyond what I could emotionally manage.

This year was different.

It was still hard.
There were moments during the walk where I could feel the grief sitting just beneath the surface. Even writing this now brings tears to my eyes.

But we did it.

Not quickly.
Not easily.
But together.

There is something powerful about walking through darkness as dawn begins to arrive. Thousands of people carrying stories you cannot see. Grief. Love. Depression. Loss. Survival. Hope.

At one point I found myself thinking about all the people walking beside me who could not see how broken I felt inside. Even Fionn could not fully see it.

And yet maybe, just maybe, that is part of what healing looks like.

Not the disappearance of pain, but the possibility that one day life might hold moments of joy alongside it.

Five years after losing Haze, I still don’t have neat answers about grief. I don’t think grief is something you “finish”. I think it becomes something you learn to carry differently over time.

For a long time, survival itself was the achievement.

Lately, though, I’ve started noticing small shifts:

• getting back into the gym
• swimming again
• trying to return to running
• beginning CPAP treatment for severe sleep apnoea
• slowly reconnecting with life instead of only enduring it

Doing this walk felt kind of like the old me again.
Moving towards the hard stuff instead of letting it control me.

None of this is dramatic.
Most of it is invisible from the outside.

But maybe healing often looks like that.

One quiet step at a time.

Walking beside Fionn last night mattered to me more than the distance or the event itself. It reminded me that even after immense loss, connection still exists. Love still exists.

And maybe that is what Darkness Into Light is really about.

Not pretending the darkness isn’t real.
But continuing to walk anyway until morning comes.

Haze — always in my heart.

This evening Aidan and I went outside and kicked a football around for a while before coming back in to watch the match together on TV.

Nothing major.
No deep conversations.
No big life lessons.

Just passing the ball back and forth.

A few years ago I probably would have underestimated moments like this. I think part of me always believed playing ball with your children was simply something dads did, and that meaning came from achievement, milestones or intensity.

Marathons.
Ultra-marathons.
Big goals.
Big moments.

Showing my kids that if you try hard and don’t give up you can achieve anything.

But grief changes your understanding of life.

You start to realise that some of the most important moments are actually the smallest ones. The ordinary moments that quietly become memories before you even realise they matter.

And maybe part of healing is slowly allowing the constant fear of losing another child to loosen its grip a little.

Allowing both them and me to live ordinary moments together without every moment carrying the weight of fear.

Kicking a ball around with your son.

Laughing when one of you miskicks it.

Talking nonsense about football.

Sitting beside each other watching a match without needing to force conversation.

(And Arsenal winning was definitely a bonus.)

There’s something comforting about that kind of connection.

Simple.
Uncomplicated.
Present.

As parents, I think we sometimes put pressure on ourselves to create perfect memories for our children. Big holidays. Big experiences. Constant meaning.

But more and more I think children often remember something else entirely.

That you were there.

That you spent time with them.

That you shared ordinary life together.

Tonight reminded me that healing and connection don’t always arrive through huge breakthroughs.

Sometimes they arrive quietly, disguised as an ordinary evening kicking a football around with your son.

And I hope Aidan felt that connection tonight too, and that moments like this quietly continue to strengthen the relationship between us.