The first seven days, one hour at a time

The week after someone dies has a strange texture to it. The world carries on outside the window while inside the house time seems to pool. Paperwork arrives. People call. And somewhere underneath all of it is the fact you have not yet begun to absorb.

There is no schedule for any of this. Some people move through the first weeks in a fog and find their footing months later; others feel steady at the start and undone by an ordinary Tuesday in spring. Both are ordinary. Both are survivable.

Start with what is in front of you

When everything feels urgent, almost nothing is. The handful of decisions that genuinely cannot wait are smaller in number than they appear, and the rest will keep. Give yourself permission to work through them one at a time, in whatever order makes sense to you.

• Decide who needs to be told today, and let the wider circle wait.
• Choose one person to field calls so you are not repeating the news.
• Write down what you are told — memory is unreliable right now.
• Eat something, even if you are not hungry. Sleep when you can.

Grief is not a problem to be solved. It is a form of love looking for somewhere to go.

From our conversations with families

Let other people carry something

People will ask what they can do, and the honest answer is usually that you have no idea. Keep a short list somewhere visible — groceries, the school run, sitting in the house while you sleep — and hand items out as they are offered. Accepting help is not a failure of competence.

The people around you want a way in. A specific, small task is a kindness to them as much as to you.

Return to it when you are ready

Nothing here needs to be finished this week. Save your progress, close the laptop, and come back when the day allows. What you have written down will be waiting exactly where you left it.