Grief is a strange companion. It can be sharp, sudden, quiet, and creeping - sometimes all at once. And in the middle of that tangled mess of emotion, we reach for something to hold onto. Something that reminds us: this mattered. They mattered.
For many, that something takes the shape of a symbol - a feather, a robin, a ray of sunlight at just the right time. For others, itâs a smell, a place, a song, a moment of colour breaking through the grey.
What matters most is not how âtraditionalâ the symbol is - but how it makes you feel.
Lately, Iâve been thinking about this a lot. We said goodbye to Jeremy recently - my fluffy orange assistant, my co-worker, my little lion. He was sassy, sweet, and the sort of presence you could feel even when he wasnât in the room. And now, his absence has left the most Jeremy-shaped hole.
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Every morning, I glance out the window at the little cat house he used to sleep in. Itâs empty now - but not for long. Itâs been gifted to the local allotment, where foxes and hedgehogs can find a bit of shelter when the weather turns. That feels right. Although Iâm not sure Jeremy wouldâve loved the idea of being host to a parade of storm-soaked wildlife đ
Iâve been searching for the perfect flower to plant in its place.
Something orange (of course). But also something that doesnât shout this is sad.
I want it to feel like a celebration. A quiet, colourful kind of honouring.
A bloom that says I see you, and thank you, and youâre still here, in your own way...
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On Symbols and What They Mean to Us
Symbols are such an important part of how we process loss.
They help us hold onto someone, without clinging too tightly.
They give us permission to feel something, without having to explain it.
Some people find comfort in feathers, wings, or robins - traditional symbols of remembrance and connection. Others find it in unexpected places: a rainbow after the rain. A perfect peach at the market. A song that makes you cry and sing along. The symbols that matter most are the ones that feel like yours.
Because grief is heavy enough already - we donât need to carry shame and guilt alongside it.
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I know that not everyone feels this way, but I think grief can sometimes get tangled up in ideas of what itâs âsupposedâ to look like. Like you're doing it wrong if you laugh too soon, listen to music, wear colour.
As though joy is somehow disrespectful. As though you canât cry and smile in the same day.
I donât believe that.
Grief isnât a punishment. And it doesnât mean closing yourself off from light or softness or beauty.
Itâs okay to wear colour. Itâs okay to play the music. Itâs okay to laugh while youâre still sad.
It doesnât mean youâve stopped grieving. It means youâre human.
(Also, side note: Thereâs no wearing all black mourning period for me. Thatâs a hard rule.)
A Brief Moment for Memento Mori
The idea of keeping a physical token of someone youâve lost isnât new.
âMemento moriâ jewellery - which literally means remember you must die - dates all the way back to ancient Rome, but it really came into its own during the Victorian era. Lockets with hair inside. Rings engraved with names or dates. Skulls and bones as wearable reminders that life is precious and fleeting.
It sounds a bit morbid, but in a way, itâs a deep act of love. A way of carrying someone with you.
Thatâs something Iâve always connected with, and right now, Iâm in the very early stages of designing a piece in honour of Jeremy.
Something meaningful, but also full of colour and life - a Homebird twist on the traditional Memento Mori I think đ
Itâs... emotional. I'm not ready to share it just yet. But I will, when itâs time.
After the Storm...
This whole experience has shifted something in me. It's changed how I feel, what I want to make, and what I want to put into the world. So Iâve changed up the order of Stud Clubâs next design
You can see September's Design here.
Itâs a symbol of hope.
Of light after the storm.
Of the colour that returns, even when you werenât sure it would.
