About Unwritten

I haven’t yet lost someone I love. Not in the way that changes the shape of your days. But through my work fulfilling the wishes of terminally ill patients, I’ve been close enough to feel the edges of it.

I’ve stood in hospital rooms where the air felt heavy with things left unsaid. I’ve watched families hold each other a little too tightly, trying to memorise the feel of a hand in theirs. I’ve seen laughter break through tears, and tears break through laughter, often within the same minute.

When you’re helping someone live a last wish, you see how love condenses. There’s no time for trivialities. Every glance, every word, carries weight. Sometimes the gift is as simple as arranging a favourite meal, other times it’s orchestrating an entire family gathering.. but the real gift is the time they get to share in those final, undistracted moments.

Being in that space has taught me that grief isn’t just about what’s gone; it’s about what’s known to be slipping away. It starts before the final breath. Families begin grieving in advance, bracing themselves while still trying to make the most of the time left. It’s an impossible balancing act, holding joy and sorrow in the same hands.

I don’t know yet how I’ll cope when loss finds me personally. But I know this: the people who have loved and lost tell me it’s the little things that stay — the way someone laughed, the silly in-jokes, the quiet moments where nothing special happened except that you were together.

So I try to notice the little things now, while I still can.

If you knew your time with someone was running short, what would you do differently today?