Journal

Grief rarely arrives as a single emotion. When someone dies suddenly, especially a child, the mind does not move neatly from sorrow to acceptance. Instead, it travels through a landscape of conflicting states: depression, denial, anger, guilt, and a restless search for meaning. Much of Smiler grew out of that journey.

Depression

Depression is often described as sadness, but the experience is something different. It is more accurately a narrowing of the world. Ordinary things lose their colour and urgency. Time changes shape. Days feel heavy and slow, yet weeks can pass almost unnoticed. The future, which once seemed open and expansive, begins to close in around the present.

For those experiencing profound grief, depression can feel isolating in ways that are difficult to explain. Life outside continues as normal while internally everything has shifted. The rhythms that once organised daily life no longer seem relevant. In that sense depression is not simply an emotional response to loss, but a change in the way the world itself is perceived.

Suicide

Within that darkness the mind inevitably encounters thoughts about escape. For some people this appears as the thought of suicide. Often it is not a plan or a decision, but a question that surfaces when pain feels unending. The very appearance of the thought can be unsettling.

Silence around this subject can make it harder to confront. Speaking or writing about it honestly allows the thought to be examined rather than hidden. Acknowledging its presence does not mean accepting it as an answer. Instead it allows the conversation to move from secrecy towards understanding.

Denial and Anger

Grief also produces its own forms of denial and anger. Denial is not always a refusal to accept what has happened. More often it appears as a quieter resistance to reality. The mind continues to expect the familiar voice, the familiar presence, as if the world might somehow correct itself.

Anger grows from the same place. It may have no clear direction. Sometimes it attaches itself to institutions, circumstances or strangers. At other times it turns inward. Anger is rarely rational, but it reflects the mind’s refusal to accept that something irreversible has occurred.

Guilt and a Deal with the Devil

Among the most persistent responses to loss is guilt. The mind begins to revisit the past with forensic intensity. Every moment is reconsidered. Conversations are replayed. Small decisions are examined as though they might hold the explanation for what has happened.

In that state it is easy to imagine alternative histories. If only one moment had unfolded differently, perhaps the entire outcome might have changed. This is where grief can begin to resemble a kind of bargaining with the past — a private and impossible deal with the devil in which one searches for a way to reverse time.

Of course, the past cannot be renegotiated. Yet the mind often insists on returning to these questions long after reason understands their futility.

Literary DNA and Self-Expressive Writing

For me, writing became one of the ways of living with these thoughts. Writing does not resolve grief, but it can give shape to experiences that otherwise feel chaotic. A sentence becomes a small act of order imposed on confusion.

Over time it became clear that writing about grief was not only about personal expression. It was also shaped by the writers whose work had influenced me. When reading books such as A Grief Observed by C.S. Lewis or Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, it is obvious that each writer carries their own intellectual inheritance into the experience of loss.

We all possess a kind of literary DNA — a set of ideas, influences and habits of thought absorbed through reading and reflection. When grief arrives, those influences become part of the language through which we attempt to understand what has happened.

Self-expressive writing therefore becomes something more than a private act. It connects the writer to a much longer conversation in which others have attempted to face loss through language. Each account is individual, but each also echoes those that came before.

If Smiler contributes anything, it is simply another voice within that continuing conversation.

A Closing Reflection

The essays and reflections in Smiler emerged from that same process of writing through confusion rather than writing from certainty. The book does not attempt to offer conclusions about grief, because grief rarely provides them. Instead it records a series of attempts to understand how loss reshapes the mind, memory and the language through which we describe our lives. In that sense the act of writing became less about explanation and more about exploration — a way of walking carefully through the darker corners of experience and placing words where silence might otherwise remain.

Related: Start with the practical guide to writing through grief after losing a child, then read more about Smiler and the personal and research background behind this writing.

Places carry memory. Long after the people who once lived there have gone, the land still holds traces of their presence.

Landscape in my work is not simply a backdrop but part of the story itself, shaping how people live, travel and remember.

Place is more than a setting in my work. It acts as a form of memory.

Landscape holds traces of the past in ways that are often subtle. Old paths, ruined walls, field patterns or place names can carry stories that stretch back centuries. Walking through a landscape can sometimes feel like moving through layers of time, where earlier lives are only partially hidden beneath the present.

Cumbria, where I live, is one such landscape. The fells, valleys and villages of the region are shaped by centuries of farming, conflict and settlement. The land still carries evidence of those histories. For a writer, this creates a sense that stories are not invented from nothing but discovered through attention to place.

Landscape also shapes how people live. Geography influences travel, trade, work and community. A remote valley will produce a different way of life from a busy port. The environment affects how people move through the world and the choices available to them.

This relationship between people and place becomes particularly important in historical fiction. Before the speed of modern transport and communication, geography imposed real limits. Journeys that seem short today could once take days or weeks. Communities were often shaped by the boundaries of the landscape around them.

When writing about the past, understanding the physical world in which people lived is essential. Landscape provides the conditions in which lives unfold. It also offers continuity. Long after individual lives have disappeared, the land remains, quietly holding their traces.

These themes also inform my current historical novel William, which explores the lives of ordinary people during the upheavals of the eighteenth century.

History is usually told through the actions of leaders and armies. Yet most people experience historical change not through power, but through the disruption of ordinary life.

My writing focuses on those quieter perspectives — the lives of individuals navigating events far larger than themselves.

History is often written through the lives of kings, generals and political leaders. Their decisions shape events, but they rarely represent how history was actually experienced. Most people encounter historical change not as grand strategy but as disruption to ordinary life. War, political upheaval, migration and economic change are felt first in homes, farms, streets and workplaces.

My interest as a writer lies in those quieter spaces. I am drawn to the lives of people who would rarely appear in official records: labourers, families, migrants, soldiers or prisoners who find themselves caught in forces much larger than themselves. Their decisions are usually practical rather than heroic. They respond to circumstances rather than shaping them. Yet their experiences are the real texture of history.

This approach shifts the focus away from spectacle and towards consequence. A rebellion is not only a battle; it is also the moment when someone leaves home and may never return. Transportation is not just a policy of empire; it is a family suddenly separated by an ocean. Even major political movements become personal when viewed through the life of an individual trying to survive them.

Writing in this way also allows space for ambiguity. Ordinary people rarely know how events will turn out. They act with incomplete information, rumours and assumptions. In that sense their experience is closer to our own. History only appears inevitable in retrospect.

The aim is not to recreate history from above but to experience it from within. By following individual lives, the scale of historical events becomes clearer, not through explanation but through lived experience.

These themes also inform my current historical novel William, which explores the lives of ordinary people during the upheavals of the eighteenth century.

The past rarely ends with the people who lived it. Decisions, migrations and losses often echo quietly through the generations that follow.

Many of my stories explore how lives unfold across time, shaped by histories that are sometimes only partially understood.

Lives rarely exist in isolation. Each generation inherits the consequences of the one before it.

Inheritance is often understood in material terms — land, property or wealth passed from parent to child. Yet there are other forms of inheritance that shape lives just as strongly. Decisions made decades earlier can alter the direction of families and communities long after the original moment has passed.

Migration, loss, opportunity and conflict all leave traces that move forward through time. A journey taken by one generation may determine where the next is born. A single decision can echo quietly through lives that follow.

This idea of generational inheritance lies at the centre of much of my writing. Rather than focusing on a single moment in history, I am interested in how stories unfold across time. Characters may not fully understand the past that shaped them, but they still live within its consequences.

Historical fiction provides a natural space for exploring these connections. It allows movement between different periods and perspectives, revealing how one life influences another. Seen this way, history becomes less a sequence of isolated events and more a continuing conversation between generations.

The past does not disappear. It travels with us in the form of memory, landscape and the decisions that shape the lives we inherit.

These themes also inform my current historical novel William, which explores the lives of ordinary people during the upheavals of the eighteenth century.

History records events, but memory reveals how those events were lived.

Much of my writing explores the space between official historical accounts and the personal experiences that rarely appear in the historical record.

History and memory are not the same thing. History attempts to record events, while memory reflects how those events are experienced and remembered by individuals.

Official histories often focus on what can be documented: battles fought, laws passed, governments formed and dissolved. These accounts are important, but they do not always capture how events were felt by the people who lived through them.

Memory is more personal and often less certain. It carries emotion, interpretation and sometimes silence. Families remember stories in fragments: a migration, a loss, a journey that changed everything but was never fully explained. These memories can shape identity long after the original events have passed.

As a writer, I am interested in the space between recorded history and lived memory. Fiction allows exploration of that gap. It can imagine the inner lives that historical documents rarely reveal.

Many historical records tell us what happened but not how it felt. They rarely describe the uncertainty of living through events whose outcome was unknown. Fiction can restore some of that immediacy by placing the reader inside the moment rather than observing it from a distance.

This approach does not replace historical fact but works alongside it. Research provides the structure and context, while narrative explores the emotional and human dimensions that formal history often leaves untouched.

In this way storytelling becomes another way of understanding the past.

These themes also inform my current historical novel William, which explores the lives of ordinary people during the upheavals of the eighteenth century.

Introduction

The journey from academic research to personal memoir, creative writing, and even self-help books can be a profound one. Even more so when the subject matter is deeply personal. In my case, this transformation was born out of the need to make sense of my grief following the loss of my son, Dom. My Ph.D. thesis explored the use of creative and self-expressive writing as a form of grief therapy. It served as the foundation for what would become a memoir and a piece of creative writing. This essay provides an overview of my experience. It highlights the pivotal role of autoethnography in this process and offers advice to other students seeking to embark on a similar path. Moreover, it showcases how this research journey has also extended into the creation of self-help books, amplifying the impact of my work.

From Thesis to Memoir: The Healing Power of Personal Narratives

The journey from academic thesis to memoir is, in many ways, a journey from the head to the heart. In academia, we are often trained to approach subjects with intellectual rigour and objectivity. However, when it comes to deeply personal topics such as grief, the heart and the emotions cannot be neatly compartmentalised. The transition from research to personal narrative allowed me to blend these two seemingly disparate realms.

Autoethnography, a methodology that encourages self-reflection and personal storytelling within the research process, was the linchpin that bridged these two worlds. It allowed me to weave together the analytical and the emotional, the academic and the personal. Through this method, I became both the researcher and the subject, navigating my way through academia and the intricate process of grief.

The Role of Autoethnography

Autoethnography is a qualitative research approach that emphasises the researcher’s personal experiences and reflections as a means of understanding a larger social or cultural context. In my case, autoethnography became a therapeutic tool that enabled me to examine my grief journey through an academic lens. It invited me to delve deep into the contours of my own emotions, my memories of Dom, and my responses to loss.

The autoethnographic approach demanded a level of self-exploration that can be both challenging and healing. It encouraged me to write my own narrative while maintaining the rigour and methodology of academic research. This dual role of researcher and subject allowed me to transform my grief into a meaningful and enlightening process.

Navigating Grief Through Autoethnography

While conducting my research, I found myself shifting from a detached researcher to an emotionally engaged participant. Autoethnography allowed me to confront the raw and painful moments of my journey. I recorded my thoughts, fears, and revelations as they unfolded, transforming them into data points for analysis.

The act of writing became a form of catharsis. It was through this process that I realised how my thesis was not merely an academic exercise but a therapeutic tool for myself. The creative and self-expressive writing I had studied began to serve as a refuge, a means to confront the complex emotions that grief had thrust upon me.

The Power of Storytelling

Once the research phase was complete and I was awarded my doctorate, I was faced with the daunting task of transforming my thesis into a memoir. Autoethnography provided a natural segue into this creative endeavour. It allowed me to harness the emotional depth of my research and convert it into a compelling narrative.

In my memoir, I weaved together the academic findings with my personal experiences. The memoir was not merely a recounting of facts but a vivid exploration of my own journey through grief. By embracing autoethnography, I could authentically convey the emotional rollercoaster of loss, the ups and downs, the moments of despair, and the glimpses of hope.

Honouring Dom’s Memory

In addition to the memoir, I sought to create a piece of creative writing that would pay homage to my son’s memory. This was perhaps the most challenging part of my journey. Autoethnography, however, acted as a guide. It enabled me to tap into my creative instincts while staying rooted in the profound lessons I had learned through my research.

The creative piece, a heartfelt tribute to Dom, allowed me to express the love and grief that had been bottled up inside me. It was both a release and a celebration of his life. Autoethnography reminded me that the most profound writing often emerges from the heart, and my creative work was a testament to this truth. The memoir is now published and entitled Smiler.

Self-Help Books: Extending the Impact

The journey from research to personal narratives had a profound impact not only on my own healing but also on my ability to help others. Drawing on the insights and experiences gathered during my research, I felt compelled to produce self-help books that could provide guidance and solace to those who, like me, had experienced loss.

The first book, Remember with Love, emerged as a guide for children coping with the loss of a pet. It drew from my research on creative and self-expressive writing, offering practical tools and emotional support to young minds facing the pain of bereavement.

The second book, Grief Tools, became a guide for parents who had experienced the unimaginable loss of a child. In this work, I applied the methodologies and emotional depth cultivated during my research to provide a lifeline to those navigating the most profound grief.

Advice for Other Students

As I reflect on this transformative journey, I would like to offer some advice to other students who may be considering a similar path:

• Embrace Autoethnography: Autoethnography is a powerful method for deeply personal research. It invites you to explore your own experiences, emotions, and memories within the academic context. Don’t shy away from it; instead, let it be your guiding light.
• Find the Healing in Research: Academic research need not be a detached pursuit. It can be a source of healing and self-discovery. Use your research as a mirror to navigate your own experiences, particularly if your work revolves around deeply personal themes like grief.
• Weave the Academic and the Personal: When transitioning from research to creative writing, a memoir, or self-help books, remember that the academic and the personal can coexist harmoniously. Let your research findings enrich your narratives, and vice versa.
• Don’t Rush the Creative Process: Creative writing is an art that cannot be rushed. It’s a deeply personal journey, and it’s okay to take your time. Let your emotions and experiences guide your creative process, and trust that your unique voice will shine through.
• Extend Your Impact: If your research touches upon profound human experiences, consider how it can be extended to help others. Self-help books, guides, or other forms of outreach can amplify the impact of your work and provide support to those in need.
• Honour Your Truth: In the process of transforming your research into creative works, stay true to your experiences and emotions. This is your story, and it deserves to be told authentically.

In conclusion,

My journey from academic research to memoir, creative writing, and self-help books, fuelled by autoethnography, has been a testament to the power of storytelling and the capacity of research to bring healing to both the author and the wider community. Through this process, I have not only unearthed the transformative potential of personal narratives but also extended my reach to offer solace and guidance to those grappling with grief. In doing so, I’ve learned that the most authentic and powerful narratives are born from the heart and have the potential to resonate deeply with others who are on a similar path of healing and self-discovery. My experience underscores that when research, creative expression, and empathy converge, they can create a profound and lasting impact on the lives of those who read and reflect upon our work.