
Letters From The Quiet Corner – Part 4
It has been some time since I last wrote, and part of that is because my life has shifted in ways I hadn’t anticipated. I recently started a full-time job, and with my daughter at university, my son working, and my youngest finding her feet in her final year of secondary school, my mind has been wandering more than ever. The heavy tide of grief for Nicki has been rolling in again, stronger and more persistent, and with a civil case still looming over us, it has become increasingly difficult to function as if everything is normal.
Every meeting, email, or conference seems to reopen the wound — repeatedly hearing about how Nicki died, and worse, how he could have been saved. How can we fully grieve when we are forced to confront this over and over again? I am not ready to allow myself the time to grieve yet. Not while this wound continues to be opened with each new reminder.
For now, I need something to occupy my mind. The job provides that, and it gives me stability. Camrhisa Designs remains a priority — a source of positive energy, and a way to remind others that it is okay to struggle, that it is normal to need a pause. It is alright to take those precious minutes for yourself, whether to refocus, reset, or simply relax. You deserve that time.
I can still write about my experiences with grief, hoping to reach anyone else navigating similar pain. I can also use the steady income from my job to support my daughter at university and to grow Camrhisa so I can reach a wider audience. My goal has always been the same: to raise awareness of mental health through Nicki’s story, to challenge the idea that burnout is a badge of honour, and to help as many people as I can.
And so, as summer slowly turns to autumn, I am entering a new chapter. The priority remains unchanged, but the focus has shifted. I must control my emotions until the court case concludes, until I can finally allow myself to accept that Nicki is not coming back. I also have to follow my own advice — to give myself space when the weight becomes too much.
My children are entering their own young adult phases, and I am no longer able to focus on them in the same way. It is a strange feeling, but one I will have to adjust to. Still, it is for them, and for Nicki’s family, that I continue to fight. To move forward, even when each step feels like cement tied to my feet. And in doing so, I hope to help others keep fighting too.
Even when the tide of grief feels overwhelming, we can still find small anchors — moments of love, purpose, and connection — that remind us we are still moving forward, still living, still holding those we have lost in our hearts.