My Story of Love, Loss, and Resilience

June 2025

For my mum, whose glass was always half full

This is a story I never thought I’d have to write, one rooted in love, shaped by loss, and held together by resilience. It’s a chapter, that taught me what it means to keep moving through pain with softness and strength.

Above all, it’s a quiet reminder: to live more fully. To be present. To embrace life in all its mess and beauty.

Grief and the Waves That Come With It

I’ve been writing this entry for months, actually for two years. Starting it, setting it aside, coming back to it… and leaving it again. It’s now been two years since Mum passed away.

It’s strange how time can stretch, blur, or vanish entirely depending on where you are in life or what your heart is carrying.

Back, forward, back, forward. That’s exactly how grief moves, especially in the beginning.
You try to accept the reality that this person is gone. And then, suddenly, you’re back in a memory, holding it tight, hoping it might bring them closer. Maybe even back.

Some days, you celebrate the moments you shared. Other days, you ache with missing them. It’s hard to make sense of it all. Just like that, they’re no longer in your life. The person who always knew how to lift my mood, who made life feel lighter… is gone.

I never thought I’d have to experience something like this so early. But who does?

I always thought I’d have more time with her. To see her grow old. To watch her become the most loving (and spoiling) grandma one day. I pictured us spending time together just like we always did: laughing in the kitchen over a cheese sandwich, going for walks in nature, talking about life, complaining about men (as one does), watching Disney movies on the couch, and drinking Cava on a random Tuesday, just because.

And yet, here I am. My greatest fear became my reality.

Looking back now, I know that we can survive even our deepest fears. No matter how impossible it feels, there’s always a way forward. It just takes time. Sometimes more, sometimes less.

This experience taught me what unconditional love truly means and that letting go is a big part of it. It made me reflect on time, and how, in the end, what remains are the moments we shared.

Through all the grief and pain, I realised how fully, deeply, and endlessly I’m capable of loving.

And for me, that’s been one of the most important lessons.

Three Months

It was summer 2021 when I received the message:
Mum had breast cancer.

I remember sitting with that news, not knowing what it meant or what would come next. In the weeks that followed, we tried to make sense of the diagnosis and what steps to take. Mum eventually chose to undergo radiotherapy and a single mastectomy, but she decided against chemotherapy.

I felt lost, not knowing enough about cancer, the procedures, or her chances of survival.
Let alone how to deal with my own feelings.

How can you prepare for something like this? You can't.

As a family, as a child, as a big sister, I tried to stay strong. I told myself, ”Isn’t breast cancer one of the most treatable cancers?” I believed in the good, stayed positive, and kept going.

After treatment, Mum seemed okay. Strong. Healthy. Herself. At least from the outside.

Just when we thought the worst was behind us, the ground collapsed beneath us. About a year and a half later, the cancer came back. This time in her liver. Stage 4. It had spread.

Mum avoided talking about it. The details were vague, and the silence between us grew heavier by the day.

My sister and I didn’t know what else to do, so we decided to visit her doctor ourselves, without telling her. We needed clarity; we didn’t know how much time we had left, or if we had any at all.

I remember us sitting there, asking the hardest question of our lives: “How long does she have?”

He looked at us calmly and said, “A maximum of three months.”

Three months…? I couldn’t process it.

I had read that life expectancy could be up to five years, and even that felt hard to imagine. But three months?

My first thoughts were selfish, maybe. “How am I going to find a partner, marry him, and have a baby in three months?”
I just wanted her to be there for those moments.

Suddenly, everything changed. The urgency. The heaviness. The perspective.

Life, as I knew it, was shaken to its core.

What the Final Months Took and Taught Me

This time, things were different. When Mum was first diagnosed, she chose not to go through chemotherapy. But now, faced with Stage 4, she agreed to it. Not because she believed it would help, but, I think, for us. For our hope. Our peace of mind. And knowing now that it didn’t change the outcome, I wouldn’t want her to go through that again.

The treatment took a toll. My mum, this vibrant, strong woman, gradually grew weaker and harder to reach. Her hair began to fall out. So my stepsister cut it into a bob, she looked beautiful. And when the chemo progressed, she shaved it all off herself.

Our last walk, February 2023

I’ll never forget the day we went shopping for headscarves at a store for cancer patients. Mum, always stylish and a little vain, didn’t want a wig. The whole experience felt heavy. She was quiet and reserved. So I tried on the scarves for her. I look just like her, and seeing me in them made her smile. She started engaging, trying them on herself. I just wanted her to feel that she wasn’t alone, that we were in this together.

I think the hardest part was watching her slowly withdraw from the world. I still had so many questions, things I wanted to ask, things I needed to say, but I couldn’t reach her anymore. I can only try to imagine how it feels to know your body is giving up. And somehow, as she faded, I felt myself slipping too, not just emotionally, but physically.

In the end, grief touched every part of me: my body, mind, and spirit. That’s when I truly understood how deeply everything is connected.

The weight I carried inside began to show on the outside. My body, once strong, began to fade. My eyes lost their spark.
I felt completely out of balance.

Still, I kept going, showing up at work, exercising, and spending time with friends, trying to maintain a sense of normality.
But inside, I was drowning.

As things came closer to an end, sleepless nights, stress-induced illness, and a constant sense of helplessness took over.

I was working a demanding job in sales, and I didn’t want to let anyone down. I worked from the hospital, spending as much time as I could close to her.

I went into survival mode, and my own needs slipped away completely.

Our bond was so strong that I began to mirror her symptoms. She swelled up from the treatments, and so did I. Her voice became strained, and I lost mine, too. She had liver cancer, and my own body began to swell in the same area. I gained more than 10 kilos, mostly water retention.

I saw specialists, had X-rays and MRIs. Nothing serious showed up. I was physically reacting to what I couldn’t emotionally process.

Two years later, I didn’t walk away unscarred. None of us did. But over time, the weight softened. What once felt heavy became a quiet reminder of how deeply I loved, and how deeply I still do.

In those final three nights, we took turns sleeping beside her. First me, then my sister, and finally my grandmother… a mother holding her daughter one last time.

On the 1st of June 2023, she left this world. We were heartbroken, but ready to honour her, just as she deserved.

A Ceremony by the Sea

She had always felt most alive by the sea. So when the time came to say goodbye, we knew exaclty where to go.

Years earlier, we’d had one of those open, light-hearted conversations about funerals. It made her wishes clear: a farewell by the water, with everyone dressed in colour, full of love and life.

We laughed, we cried, we held space for each other. Just as Mum would’ve loved.

Now, whenever I’m near the sea, I feel her. I imagine the waves carrying a little bit of her spark — her warmth and bubbly energy — back out into the world.

Mothers, Sisters, Daughters

It was their presence that gave me the extra strength to keep going. I witnessed a quiet power within the women around me, something I’d never seen so clearly before.

From my grandmother losing her daughter, to my aunt losing her twin sister, to my sister and me losing our mum, and her best friend saying goodbye to her soulmate, each of them showed up with unwavering love and strength.

Love. Resilience. Devotion. Hope. Calm.

None of us were prepared. But somehow, instinctively, we knew what to do.

Women are incredible when they come together. And I’m endlessly proud and deeply grateful for the women in my life. Their strength carried me through the hardest days.

My Healing Journey

Grief is deeply personal. No one experiences it in the same way, and there’s no single path to healing.

For some, it’s found in togetherness. For others, in solitude. Or a mix of both. There’s no timeline, no handbook. Just your own path, taken step by step.

For me, that path started with stepping away.
I knew I needed space to breathe, to feel, to slowly find my way back.

So I quit my job and spent two months in the hills of Italy. Just me and olive groves as far as the eye could see.

After months of “functioning”, being alone felt surreal. The silence was deafening at first. There were no distractions, no noises protecting me from what I hadn’t fully felt. But I knew I had to sit with it. Not avoid. Not escape.

I stayed at my family’s holiday house, tucked into the hills. The garden became my sanctuary… the scent of tomatoes, the warm soil as I pulled up potatoes, the soft hum of crickets at night. It all grounded me.

Each evening, I watered the plants. During the day, I harvested my lunch. And slowly, I started caring for myself again. I journaled by the sea, cooked nourishing meals, caught up on sleep, and let my nervous system unwind.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t need to be strong. I just needed to be.

Toward the end of my stay, I felt ready to be around people again. I spent time with my Italian family, cooking side-by-side with my cousin at his restaurant, walking along the shore with my aunts, sitting at cafés watching the world pass by.

Italy brought me back to my breath. Not shallow or rushed, but deep. Present.

And I knew that was just the beginning. From a place of exhaustion, I began exploring what helped me find my sparkle again — my joy for life.

And here’s the thing about grief: it isn’t linear. There’s no finish line. It moves in waves, back and forth, again and again.

At first, anything that reminded me of her would bring tears: the faint trace of her perfume, the song she loved playing on full volume. Sometimes I’d see a woman with a similar lion’s mane, and for a moment, I thought it was her.

Over time, those moments started to soften. They didn’t just bring sadness anymore. They also brought comfort. Sweet, quiet traces of a love that still lives on.

And one of the most personal reminders for me is her voice. I’ve saved our WhatsApp chat, full of her voice notes, everyday thoughts, and little check-ins.

For a long time, I couldn’t bring myself to open them. I was scared of what feelings they might bring up. But when I finally pressed play, it was like having her close again.

Her voice, her laugh, suddenly, she was right there. Alive in a different way.

Healing doesn’t happen all at once. It comes in small, often unexpected ways. I want to share a few things that helped me along the way and still carry me through today.

Allow Yourself to Feel Fully

It’s scary at first, but such a relief when you finally let go of what you’re carrying inside. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Holding it in only makes it heavier, and it won’t make it go away.

I’ve always tried to face life’s challenges with strength, trusting that if I just kept going and focused on what’s in front of me, I’d eventually find my way through. And most of the time, that works.

During the two years my mum was sick, I felt it all: From wandering the streets of Amsterdam at night with tears streaming down my face, to standing on a hilltop in Italy, screaming into the sky in hopes it would chase the darkness away, to sitting with a close friend, pouring out everything on my heart, the anger, the fear, the heartbreak.

When you go through something truly traumatic, understanding what’s happening inside you becomes the first real step forward.

The Power of Therapy

Coming from a German-Italian family, therapy wasn’t something we really talked about. Especially in older generations, it was often seen as something reserved for people who were really struggling.

But starting therapy was one of the best decisions I could have made. I was facing my biggest fear, losing my mum, and I didn’t want to go through it alone.

Thanks to a friend, I found the right therapist quickly. And thanks to technology, we started straightaway, while I was still in Italy. We met virtually every two weeks, and it became a safe space, a lifeline.

And yes, therapy is work. And yes, therapy works. It peels back layers and brings all kinds of emotions to the surface. I often felt like I’d come back from a heavy workout, tired, shaken, but stronger.

It gave me tools to navigate life in a new way, and hold space for my emotions.

Writing to Process and Let Go

Instead of letting thoughts spiral in my head, I’ve always found it freeing to get them out on paper.

Writing brings me clarity. It helps me untangle emotions, make sense of relationships, and see things more gently, more consciously.

As a kid, journaling felt like a task. Something I was supposed to do. But about six years ago, during a time of personal change and uncertainty, it became my anchor. A soft, judgment-free space I could always return to.

Now, I journal whenever and wherever it feels right, by the sea, during hikes, mid-flight, or in quiet corners of cafés. Some weeks, I write every day. Others, not at all. But the pages are always there, waiting.

I recently came across a study from Nagoya University in Japan (2024) that found physically discarding a piece of paper with written-down negative thoughts can reduce anger.

It’s not just the writing, it’s the act of letting go that can shift something inside.

Finding Ground in Nature

Nature has always been my invisible therapist.

When I got the call about my mum’s cancer in 2021, I was back in Cape Town. It was winter there, and almost every day, I walked along the sea, looking out at the 12 Apostles mountain range, breathing deeply, trying to make sense of it all.

There’s something about nature that grounds me. The movement, the air, the sounds, it clears my mind and calms my nervous system.

I’ll never forget our last walk together, just Mum and me, through a Belgian forest, sunlight filtering through the trees. We didn’t say a word. We just walked. And in that silence, we felt held. Connected.

Now, whenever life feels heavy, I go outside.

The Comfort of Music

Music is like a time machine. Certain songs bring back memories so vividly, along with all the emotions that came with them.

Whether it’s a new love, an epic holiday, heartbreak, or the loss of someone you love, music has a way of holding you. It catapults you straight into the feeling. Judging by my Spotify Wrapped over the past few years, I’ve never listened to more music in my life.

I started creating playlists for different moods, some to soothe me, others to help me release whatever I was carrying.

The playlist that carried me the most during that time is called Retreat. I created it as a safe space, something calming and comforting, no matter where I am. It’s still my go-to playlist when life feels chaotic, or when I need a soft backdrop during a yoga session or a quiet moment.

I also created a shared playlist for my mum while she was in the hospital. Friends and family added their favourite uplifting songs. We called it Stay Strong, and it became a beautiful way to support her from afar.

The People Who Show Up

As I shared earlier, my support system was incredible. My family and friends showed up in the most beautiful ways, holding space, offering love, and simply being there.

Since I’ve moved around a lot, building and nurturing meaningful relationships has always been a priority. From FaceTime calls and voice notes to handwritten letters and short but sweet reunions, we’ve all made the effort to stay close, no matter the distance.

Because of that shared commitment, I now have a circle of friends across the world who are always there for me, and I for them. In the end, it’s the people around you and the memories you create with them that matter most.

Movement

Movement has always been my release, a way to clear my mind and shake off whatever I’m carrying. Whether it’s walking, running, surfing, or yoga, it reconnects me to my body and helps me find my footing when everything else feels unsteady.

Sometimes it’s just me and the path ahead. Other times, I’m with friends, sharing steps, silence, or stories as we move together.

At the height of my grief, Yin Yang yoga, restorative yoga, and sound healing classes brought the most comfort. They gave me a safe space to feel, to breathe, to surrender. A space to process what words couldn’t.

Grief lives in the body. And sometimes, when you don’t know how to talk about it, or even what you’re feeling, moving through it physically is the only way forward. Each run, each stretch, each breath on the mat reminded me that I was still here. Still moving.

Staying physically active also gave me structure, a sense of rhythm when everything else felt chaotic. It grounded me in small routines, simple rituals, and daily commitments. And slowly, that’s how I began to rebuild.

The Comfort of Routine

And speaking of small routines and daily rituals, they’ve always been my anchor. When life feels chaotic, I find peace in everyday moments of order. A made bed. A clean space. A quiet morning coffee. These little things help me start the day feeling grounded.

It doesn’t matter what the routine is. What matters is that it brings calm, clarity, and joy — something steady to hold onto while you slowly find your way again.

Reconnecting with Purpose

Losing my mum made me pause and reflect on my work, my relationships, my values, and the kind of life I want to build.

I know I want to create something that grows, that carries meaning, that touches people’s lives. I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’m walking toward them, step by step.

While I was still in Italy, after many walks through olive groves and countless plates of pasta, the idea for Olives Bay was born.

I wanted to build a space, eventually a physical one too, one day, where I could share my love for food, storytelling, and meaningful connection.

It gives me energy. It gives me purpose.

Losing my mum reminded me:
Life is now. Live it.

Do what lights you up.

Grief still moves like the sea, and we move through it, wave after wave.

This chapter of my life challenged me in ways I never could’ve imagined.

It pulled me into depths I didn’t know existed, but also uncovered a quiet strength I didn’t know I had.

Today, I look back with a heart full of love and deep gratitude for every single one of those 33 years I got to spend with my mum.

And I know she lives on, in us.
In the small rituals, the quirks, the values she passed down, the way we laugh, the way we love.

This piece is for anyone navigating loss. By sharing my story, I hope to remind you that you’re not alone. That healing is possible. That being soft and strong at the same time is its own kind of magic.

With love,
Vanessa

If anything in this piece resonated with you, or if you’ve found something that helped you move through grief — a ritual, a memory, a place, or a community, I’d love to hear it. Feel free to share in the comments if you’d like. 🫶🏼🌍✨