Flashback Friday: Love & Loss

On poems, parents, and the power of finally letting go

Welcome to the first in a new series I’m calling Flashback Friday—a space to revisit past work that still echoes forward. Some pieces marked a shift in perspective. Others helped me name something I hadn’t been ready to before. All of them shaped the writer—and the person—I’ve become.

Each Friday, I’ll bring back an older essay or poem, add context around when and why it was written, and reflect on what’s changed since. Sometimes I’ll read it aloud too—because some stories ask to be heard.

Let’s Do the Time Warp Together

Back in December 2022, I wrote the piece below as part of what I thought was the final stretch of compiling my poetry collection, Love & Loss. But as I got closer to the finishing line, I realized I wasn’t actually finished. I had more to process—and more poems to write. So I gave myself the rare gift of time.

 Since then, I've released my first book, a collection of short stories called 'The Shape of Silence' that just happens to be on sale at Amazon right now, and I'm preparing to publish my debut novel this fall. With those milestones in motion, I've now set a clear date for the poetry collection. Love and Loss will be published on my 65th birthday next March.

What This Poem Opened Up

 The piece I’m sharing today began as a letter to my mum and then became a poem. But more than that, it became a reckoning—a way of finally laying down nearly fifty years of resentment. Writing it didn’t erase anything. It didn’t rewrite the past. But it helped me see it more clearly—and gave me the freedom to let it go.

Looking back now, I still think it’s one of the most honest—and liberating—things I’ve ever written. It helped me stop flinching from the hard stuff. It gave me full permission to move through life—and relationships—with more clarity, more compassion, and less fear.

It taught me that asking “why?” is almost always more powerful than fixating on “what.” That we're all human. That we mess things up. And that sometimes, the only way through is to meet the past with honesty—and then choose to move forward anyway.

If I could speak to the version of me who wrote this, I’d simply say:
Thank you.
For doing the hard work you didn’t have to do.
For proving that honesty with yourself really is the best policy.

The Original Introduction

I’m now in the home straight of finalizing Love & Loss, which will be out early in the New Year. It’s been a cathartic process to revisit and curate almost half a century’s worth of my writing. Along the way, I’ve learned a lot about myself—about the paths I’ve followed, where I am now, and what I want to do next.

In introducing the title track, Love & Loss, I’d like to share an excerpt from the book’s introduction:

“My mother died when I was 17, after a very long illness. Her health had declined throughout my teenage years, and we had known that she was dying for 3 or 4 years before her death.
Looking back now, I see that the weight of that loss muddied the love that I felt for her, and from her. I was lost, sad, angry, frustrated, hurt, and resentful.

When a loved one dies after a long illness, it feels like a double whammy. Not only have you lost that person from your life, but you lose the version of yourself that had been supporting them through their illness.

Love & Loss

‘Love & Loss’ is the first poem I’ve ever written about my mum. Like much of my more recent work, it arrived fully formed, spilling out onto the screen. In reality, almost forty-five years is a pretty long gestation period.

I see now that for all that time, I had been resenting her: for having so little emotional bandwidth when I was young; for getting sick; for dying so early—at just forty-nine.

I was still seeing things through the eyes of a child. And I had dragged that hurt through my entire adult life.

As the poem says, I’ve decided I’ve mourned enough. And instead of grieving what wasn’t, I’ve chosen to celebrate what was.

LOVE & LOSS

Sometimes
we get so wrapped up in loss
that we fail to witness love writ large

Remembering our relationships
by what they were not
rather than by all that they were

Sometimes
relationships end all too soon
Loved ones leave
They change
They grow
They die

Sometimes
Loved ones stay
And it’s the love that leaves
The love that dies

I’ve mourned for all that we didn’t have
I’ve grieved for the ‘could have beens’
For the ‘should have beens’

Enough, I say.
I’ve mourned enough.

It’s time to celebrate—
All that was
All that you were
All that you still are

You are still present in my life
And I choose to see you
Choosing to welcome you in
Choosing to feel your presence
Choosing to hear you
  in my words
Choosing to see you
  in my reflection
Choosing to be enveloped
  in your love

If this resonates, you’re warmly invited to subscribe to Brittle Views, or to share this with someone navigating their own reckoning—with a parent, a memory, or a version of themselves they’re ready to release.

Next Friday, I’ll revisit another piece—this time a poem—and reflect on what still feels true, and what I’ve since let go.

Thanks, as always, for reading.