Grief Has No Finish Line

Coming home has been harder than I ever imagined.

For over a year, Priscilla was my world — a small tin can on wheels, cramped and imperfect, but warm, familiar, and alive. Everything I owned was within arm’s reach. Life was simple: wake up, walk, eat, sleep, repeat. The coast was my constant companion, and movement was my medicine.

Returning home has been a stark contrast.

Instead of the cosy closeness of Priscilla, I’ve come back to a large, cold, empty house — one that echoes with memories of Angela. Every room holds reminders of a life we shared, conversations we’ll never finish, plans we’ll never complete. My broken heart feels heavier here. I miss her so desperately that at times I feel hollow inside, as if grief has rushed back in like a tsunami, pulling the ground from beneath my feet.

I hadn’t expected this.

I thought finishing the walk would bring relief, maybe even closure. But instead, it seems the stillness has allowed everything I was carrying to finally catch up with me.

Physically, I am exhausted. Walking 5,000 miles around Britain has taken far more out of my body than I realised at the time. When you’re in survival mode, you just keep going. It’s only when you stop that you feel the true cost. And emotionally… I don’t think I was prepared for the impact of returning home at all.

On top of this, my mum’s memory is deteriorating, and I find myself worrying constantly about her and what the future might hold. Watching this unfold has stirred painful memories of Angela before we knew she had a brain tumour. Back then, we genuinely thought she might be developing early-onset dementia. Seeing similar signs now feels like reopening an old wound — one that never truly healed. It’s left me feeling like I’m strapped into yet another emotional rollercoaster, one I didn’t knowingly queue for.

The festive season didn’t help. Christmas was particularly difficult — which I know is completely understandable — but I really wasn’t in the festive spirit at all. Now it’s a New Year, and for the past few weeks I’ve found myself tearful every single day, struggling to get out of bed, struggling to find motivation for even the smallest things.

I have been trying, though. I make sure I walk for at least an hour every day. Poor Poppy is much slower now, so what used to be an energetic stride has become more of a gentle dawdle.

But when I’m walking, something shifts. I feel more connected — to nature, to the world, to myself. I love watching the sky, the way sunlight filters through trees creating shadows and reflections. I was even lucky enough to spot a kingfisher the other day. Moments like that make me feel more alive. I really must get out more.

Recently, I had to give myself a firm but compassionate talking-to.

Today, I started training for my next adventure. I joined a friend for a parkrun — someone I used to run with many years ago. I was genuinely happy just to finish it… although it very nearly finished me. I spent the rest of the day horizontal on the sofa, recovering with some truly terrible TV. Still, I managed a lunchtime walk and an evening walk with Poppy, and that felt like a small win.