Irish Daily Mirror

Live it well Walki overc Ing helped come my grief

Seven years ago, TV star turned life coach Holly Matthews’ husband died at the age of 32, leaving her alone with two young daughters. Here Holly reveals how she coped with the pain that engulfed her

Cradling my youngest daughter Texas, then four, in my arms as she sobbed uncontroll­ably, I watched on as Brooke, six, threw her toys around the room in anger. I choked back my own tears to be as supportive as possible to my two heartbroke­n girls.

They had just been told their wonderful, funny, brilliant dad Ross, my soulmate husband, had died from a rare brain tumour aged just 32, and the pain was unbearable.

After they had succumbed to sleep, I pulled on my trainers, leaving the girls in the safe hands of my mother-in-law Dionne. I knew the fresh air on a long walk would comfort me and soothe my heart, and allow me time alone with my thoughts to process my own emotions.

When I walked alone, it was never about keeping fit. I very literally took each day one step at a time and on these walks my mind processed the grief that engulfed me.

It had been a year earlier, in August 2016, that Ross and I had been sitting in the hospital waiting room in Birmingham Queen Elizabeth hospital laughing and joking. It was how we always were.

But leaving the oncologist’s room that day left us in a more sombre mood. The tumour had grown and the doctors didn’t really have an answer. We got in the car acutely aware of the severity of what we had just been told – that Ross didn’t have long left to live.

We had met in our early 20s and fell in love immediatel­y. If someone had told me before meeting Ross that you could connect like that with someone I would have cringed, but we did.

At the time I was a TV actress having appeared in shows such as Waterloo

Road, Byker Grove and BBC’S Casualty, and Ross was a property developer.

We spent most of our days together, not because we had to but because we wanted to and didn’t tire of each other’s company.

By the time we were 28, we had Brooke and Texas. Ross was a great dad, hands-on and helpful. He cooked, cleaned, did the shopping and thought nothing of organising a pirate treasure hunt or letting the girls do his make-up.

n 2014, Ross began to get headaches was experienci­ng changes in his od. Initially we put this down to the y life of being parents, but in ruary that year we got the news that uld change our lives. They had found gg-sized tumour in Ross’s brain. his was cancer, a primary central vous system tumour, grade four, , normally found in children and at back of the head (whereas his was he front) and Ross had a 50/50 chance of surviving five years.

Next up were brain surgeries, chemothera­py, radiothera­py and many hospital appointmen­ts coupled with seizures, night sweats and pain.

Initially the doctors were ticking a box to “cure” but after that 2016 oncology meeting, we saw they were ticking the box to “prolong”.

And after more than three years of living with this cancer, Ross died in Myton Hospice in Warwick, on July 29, 2017.

Trying to navigate the death of a loved one can feel completely overwhelmi­ng, and finding tools to help us through this is essential.

By the time Ross died, I was running my own self-developmen­t business – I’m now a qualified self-developmen­t coach – and so I was lucky enough to understand how our minds work and have some ideas to get me started, although even with this knowledge, the reality of grief and loss can mean everything gets thrown out of the window.

One of the earliest mindset shifts I made was to focus on acceptance and gratitude.

I had to accept that Ross had died and to drag my mind towards finding anything good on the outskirts of that pain.

I understood I was going to have to dig deep to support my daughters through this time and totally shake up my idea of how my life was going to look.

We had an incredible family and group of friends supporting us but I knew that I would have to create routines, rituals and take practical steps to help me and my daughters through the swamp that is early grief.

Walking became my saviour – it allowed me to get out of my house and out of my head.

I also took my daughters for “gratitude walks” where we would say what we felt grateful for as we hit the pavement. We then incorporat­ed scavenger hunts into these walks where I would write a list of things that we could spot. The girls ticked off red car, insect or yellow flower and laughed with glee, while I was gifted a moment of respite from grief.

There were times when, as I walked through Coventry’s War Memorial park, tears streamed down my face and I took a seat to acknowledg­e how hard my new world was.

In those early years after Ross’s death my little trio faced a world of pain. Plus, everyone’s emotions would come at different times and in different forms. The fresh air on a long walk would comfort me and soothe my heart.

I’m now 39 and the

girls – now 11 and 13 – are doing really well.

I remind them that Ross is in them, and he still influences every decision I make in some way because of the impact he made on me.

There will be certain dates where the grieving process is harder and on certain milestones the tears will come. Texas starts secondary school in September and seeing her finish primary school, knowing that Ross didn’t see any of it, makes me feel very sad.

I now know there is no one singular way to get through grief.

Some will find solace in walking in nature, others by surroundin­g themselves with community, or some unusual new hobby.

You can’t pass or fail working through your grief, you just have to give some things a go and keep stepping.