A Birthday Reflection from the Middle Room

I wrote my first blog about eighteen months ago. It was called The Rocking Chair and it captured my hopes and dreams for my life, from the viewpoint of my 87-year-old self.

Today, as I turn 39, I’m revisiting the rocking chair, but this time it’s a sofa. I’m in the “middle room” in my new house, with the cosiest blanket in the world, a cup of tea, a huge packet of biscuits, and the cat we never planned to adopt.

Since that first post in 2024, life has shifted in ways my 87-year-old self probably anticipated but 37-year-old me certainly hadn’t quite grasped. When I read that original post it still makes me cry: big, happy, proud, hopeful tears. A lot of those dreams are still dreams, but today, this sofa, in this house, this life, these things are a reality. Getting here was not luck, it was not by accident, and it certainly wasn’t straightforward, but it has been a learning curve.

I didn’t deliberately sit down to write this in the middle room of my house – the room so called because that’s exactly what it is: a random, dark, high-ceilinged space between the front room, the bedrooms, and the kitchen. It’s exactly what it is: the room in the middle of the house. As I sit here though, I’ve realised it is the perfect representation of the space in which I work as a grief and loss coach.

The gap, the middle bit, the bit you’re not sure what to do with, between who you were before your loss, and who you are becoming now that loss has become part of your story.

Much like this room when we first moved in, grief can be an uncomfortable, isolating, dark, and lonely place to be. A space that often feels like a tunnel you can’t get out of, but you know there’s something brighter, lighter, more positive on the other side. I don’t think that’s what this room is though. I think this room is the important bit, the heart of the house, the place where the magic happens, the place where we can really feel, make plans, and find strength.

And that’s what grief coaching is: a space that may start as uncomfortable and uncertain but transforms into something powerful and comforting.

The rocking chair was about legacy, and I still believe in the dreams I set out in that original post, but this sofa here, is about the now, and it’s OK to sit here for a while.

I’m not making big grand plans or gestures for my 40th birthday next year, but I do promise to stay in the middle room with you as long as you need. And when you’re ready to move forward, I’ll be there, holding the door open to the future you wrote, the plans you made, using the strength you found right here in the middle.