Writing Through It: The Story behind ‘Goodnight, Mum’

I never set out to write a book. In fact, I never even planned to write poetry. I’ve never claimed to be a literary genius or that anything I’ve jotted down was ever truly “worth” reading. It was never about the reading anyway — it was the writing that became necessary.

In October 2022, my incredible mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer and given 12 months to live. My world imploded. She was my rock, my safe place, my safety net and biggest cheerleader. I never imagined losing her in my thirties, and the moment we got that diagnosis, the grieving began.

I hadn’t really known grief before. I’d been, dare I say, lucky — the kind of “lucky” where I’d lost grandparents too young to really remember, and my elderly aunt back in 2016. But then 2022 hit like a wrecking ball. I lost my cousin, then my best friend’s mum, and the year after that, my uncle, a close friend… and finally, my mum. It was relentless. A brutal blur. A year of hell.

And the thing is — the hell doesn’t end the moment they’re gone. I watched the person I loved most slowly disappear for 12 months. My grief didn’t start the day she died. By then, I was already waist-deep in it.

I’ve always been emotional (understatement of the year), and creativity has always been my way of coping — mainly through music. I’ve played piano, sung, and written songs since I was 8 years old. My childhood was basically a schedule of music exams, amateur dramatics, theatre school, school plays and choirs — and little Jonathan was there, front and centre, every time (preferably with a solo). And my mum? Always in the wings, cheering the loudest.

So, you can imagine the heartbreak when she died — and I inevitably hit the most paralyzing creative block of my life. I couldn’t even listen to music, let alone play it. Singing felt wrong. The piano felt alien. It was like: why should there be music or joy when the universe has taken her away from me?

But my brain doesn't do stillness. It needs to do. And one day, I picked up a pen and scribbled a few feelings in a notebook. At the time, I thought I was just storing ideas for future lyrics. But without realising it, I had started writing poems.

Poetry — a form I’d never really paid much attention to before — started to pour out of me. And it came naturally. Not because I’m some poetic prodigy, but because the grief was so loud, it needed a way out. And for me, that way was rhyme and rhythm and unfiltered, brutal honesty.

At first, it was private — like journaling, except it rhymed occasionally. But then I started showing a few family members, some close friends (who were also grieving) and the response floored me. They saw themselves in the lines. They connected. And it made me think: if writing helps me, and reading it helps them, then… why stop?

One poem became ten, and ten became a full collection over a matter of months. Only about 25% of my original drafts made it into the final book — but I was proud of what I had put together. I started looking into getting pieces published in anthologies or magazines, and somehow — and I still don’t quite believe this — I signed a publishing contract with Pegasus in May 2024.

And you'd think that would be the end, right? That neat little sentence: “...and the rest is history.” Wrong. That was just the beginning. What I thought was a finished manuscript turned out to be more like a rough sketch. I ended up writing over half of the final book after the contract was signed. And there were moments I genuinely thought I wouldn’t finish it.

‘Goodnight, Mum’ is written in a linear way. It tells a story, start to finish.

• Part One: The Storm — is from the diagnosis to the day she died.

• Part Two: The Abyss — is the aftermath, the shock, the loneliness, the unrelenting chaos of immediate loss.

• Part Three: A bit more hopeful — and looks at what comes next, what healing can look like (on good days).

And the reason I struggled to finish it? Simple. I’m still living it. You don’t “complete” grief. There’s no exam, no certificate at the end. I started this project 18 months ago, and I’m still in it. Still learning how to walk alongside it.

But here's what I have learned: you can nurture grief. You can stop trying to fight it or silence it or “move on” from it. Instead, you let it move in. You give it a corner of the room, and you sit with it when the time is right.

Grief is entirely personal. I wouldn’t dare pretend I can guide anyone else through it — but I can offer companionship on the road. That’s what this book is: my story. My processing. And if you’re someone who needs a bit of quiet company in your own journey, I hope this collection can sit beside you. Not to fix it. But maybe to help you feel it.

And yes — I know not everyone processes things outwardly. Some people survive by bottling it up. That’s okay too. This is your story. Your grief. But eventually, if you can face it — even a little — I do think that’s where things start to shift.

We’ve been taught from a young age that strength means keeping it together. I’d argue the opposite. I say: grieve loudly. Grieve in a way that feels like it might rip you open. Because when you sit down with that kind of emotion — even if you have to strap yourself to the chair — you start to let it in. You start to make space.

In my humble (published!) opinion, emotion is powerful. And if you can harness it, it can become one of the strongest tools in surviving loss. I also know that, for some, emotional suppression is a matter of survival — and that’s okay too. Again, This is your story. Your grief. Your coping mechanism. But at some point, you have to look it in the eye. You can’t move forward until you acknowledge what’s standing in your way.

I can say, almost two years after losing my mum, that I never want to stop grieving now. Because grief keeps her alive in my heart. I want to cry on anniversaries. I want to feel something when our favourite song comes on the radio, or when I see a new TV show and think, Mum would have loved that. I don’t want to lose that part of myself — because I’ve learned that the pain is just a reflection of the love I had.

I’m incredibly proud of what I’ve created with this book. Analysing my own journey, giving shape to something so abstract and painful, has been cathartic in a way I didn’t expect. Every ounce of my confusion, my anger, sadness, soul-searching, and reflection has been poured into these pages.

Part of me sometimes wonders if I should’ve waited, and written a Part Four. I do feel like there’s another chapter — one that explores what I’m starting to feel now: things like optimism, healthy coping mechanisms, nostalgia, even joy. Maybe even the happy memories, the ones that don’t sting as much anymore.

But then again, the book was never meant to be an easy read. It’s not a self-help guide. And the variation in tone, topic, intensity, and style mirrors what grief is really like. Grief isn’t one-note. It’s messy and confusing and contradictory. One day it’s loud and suffocating. The next, it’s quiet and hollow. No one teaches us this in school. We’re just expected to deal with whatever hand we’re dealt, whenever it happens.

If I could give one piece of advice to anyone walking this path (oh, here he goes…) it would be this: stop chasing “normal.” It doesn’t exist anymore. You’ve been placed on a path you didn’t choose, and it’s terrifying. It’s lonely, it’s dark, and it’s all-consuming. But the sooner you stop trying to get “back” to how things were, the sooner you can begin to let grief in.

Acceptance, in my opinion, when it comes to grief, isn’t just about accepting that someone is gone. That’s only half the battle. The real acceptance is understanding that your life has been turned upside down — and there’s no undoing it. Everything is different now (and of course it is, how the hell couldn’t it be? — your loved one died!) But, you can learn to coexist with it.

Just remember: you can’t invite something into your home without looking it in the eye and acknowledging it first.