Losing my Dad to cancer didn’t just take him away; it changed the shape of my entire life. I used to think of the future as something bright and exciting, full of milestones to reach & moments to celebrate. Now, every one of those moments feels split in two. There’s the part where something good happens, and then there’s the part where it aches, because he isn’t here to see it.
People talk about “getting back to normal”, but I’m starting to realise that’s not how this works. There is no old normal waiting for me on the other side of grief. There’s only a new version of life, one where his absence is always present in some quiet, persistent way.
When you lose someone who was the heart of your family, the gravity that held everything together, you don’t just lose them. The entire structure of your life shifts. Family dynamics change in ways you can’t predict or prepare for. And somehow, you’re expected to learn how to live without them, even though you have no idea how.
At the beginning, there are messages, calls, and endless bunches of flowers. People show up, they check in, they care. But over time, that fades. Everyone else returns to their lives, while you’re still living inside this unimaginable loss that hasn’t lessened in the way people assume it will.
I think about him every day. Sometimes it’s in small things - a memory, a habit, a phrase he used to say. Other times it’s bigger, like when I get the urge to tell him something or when I want to ask for his opinion and then I realise, I can’t. Those are the moments that feel the heaviest.
And then there’s the disbelief. Most of the time, it still doesn’t feel real. It’s like my mind refuses to fully accept it, as if holding that truth at a distance somehow makes it more bearable. But every so often, the reality breaks through, sharp and undeniable, and it’s overwhelming in a way I can’t quite put into words.
Grief isn’t something you can “fix.” It’s something you carry. Some days it’s lighter, almost manageable. Other days, it settles in your chest and feels so heavy that you can hardly breathe.
There’s a cruel irony in losing the person who you would always run to for comfort, who always knew how to make you feel better. The person who could make the hard things feel manageable and could always somehow find a silver lining. The person that gave the hug that would instantly make it all feel okay. The very person who would’ve known how to carry you through this kind of pain.
What I keep coming back to is how incredibly grateful I am to have had a Dad like him, and that I wouldn’t change anything for the 24 years that I got with him. The pain I feel now is a reflection of how truly lucky I was to have him. Reminding myself of that doesn’t take the hurt away, but it gives it meaning. Even writing this feels like a small way of weeding through my emotions and making sense of something that otherwise feels impossible to understand.
Maybe I won’t ever feel fully “normal” again. But maybe moving forward looks like this; carrying both the gratitude and the grief at the same time, and learning, slowly & imperfectly, how to just keep going anyway.
In the months since he passed, I’ve been searching for ways to channel this grief into something positive - for myself, as a way to cope, and for Dad, as a way to show him that I’m fighting on.
That’s why I’m so proud to have partnered with JAYD Swimwear to create a limited-edition range, with all proceeds going to Cure Cancer.
Designing this collection felt like a way to take my swimming, which was always something my Dad was always a central part of, and turn it into a force for good. Every swimsuit isn’t just fabric; they each have a story, a memory and a tribute to my amazing Dad.
My personal stakes in the fight for a cure may have changed, but the goal remains the same. I hope this Cure Cancer x JAYD Swimwear collection can fund more vital research, more life-saving clinical trials, more breakthroughs - and maybe fewer people will have to live the rest of their lives with a broken heart, after losing someone they love to cancer.