Reflections at the start of 2025 - from third edition of my newsletter

I am writing this on 1 January 2025, which inevitably provokes some reflection on the year gone and the year ahead. In ‘normal’ times that would, perhaps, be more straightforward for me. Thinking about the ups and downs of the last twelve months and the feelings they bring up for me. Then turning an eye to the next twelve months, with goals and plans for the year ahead.

This photo was taken at my dad’s last match at Anfield - in April 2017. He took me to my first game at Anfield (in March 1984) and I took him to his last.

I have done those things - including posting my gratitude list for 2024, something I think is important in banking the positives from the previous year: https://www.amjcounselling.com/amj-blog/gratitude-list-for-2024.

As I look forward to 2025, I have set some professional goals, and objectives in relation to my wellbeing (continuing to focus on my jam jar and being vigilant every day on trying to maintain positive mental health, listening to my needs and prioritising them, especially how I use the time with my wonderful wife and darling daughter); writing (with a focus on this newsletter, blog posts/articles on my work and trying to finish a book I have been working on for some time); my golf (looking to get my handicap down to something starting with six); and how I help my mum adapt to her new life on her own, following the recent death of my dad.

It is this event - my dad’s death on 2 December - which has cast a shadow over this reflection and has shaped my current thinking about the year gone and the year ahead. I am not racked with sadness and grief - I have found great comfort in the timing and manner of my dad’s death - and felt hugely grateful to be able to pay tribute to him and his full life at his recent funeral: https://www.amjcounselling.com/amj-blog/eulogy-for-my-dad. My overriding feelings are those of acknowledging the impact and fallout from his death and the impact that had on me and those around me.

There is a timeless truth about loss and grief: we all experience it and show it differently. We don’t all react or respond in the same way and we don’t all meet the expectations of others on how we should feel or exhibit our feelings. From the point of my dad’s death until now, my focus has been on the logistics of it all - arranging the funeral and ensuring dad got the send-off he wanted and deserved - and on supporting my mum, sister and others around me. In many ways having this focus probably helped me to have a sense of direction and purpose over the last four weeks. This focus provided me with direction but it was also extremely draining - at the end of a busy year of profession and personal effort. That is nobody’s fault, but it was the reality of my experience. By the time Christmas arrived, I was spent.

As an introvert, I am more comfortable in processing my feelings quietly and in private, spending time with my own thoughts and making sense of it all, mostly on my own. I have the people I trust - a very small number of people - with whom I feel safe in sharing my inner feelings and I have my own ways of dealing with my feelings.

My dad’s death brought up a complex set of feelings and experiences for me - something I have sat with, despite the discomfort they can bring up. I have received offers to chat - which are kind - but not taken them up as they would not meet my needs, despite the expectations of others of that being a good thing for me to do. And I have received many messages, that are well-intentioned, but are telling me how I am feeling and how they expect me to feel. Again, these don’t help or meet my needs. I am ok with receiving them because they come from a good place, but they prove how hard it is to us to get inside someone else’s head and truly feel their pain and their feelings.

The answer: we shouldn’t try to read others’ mind. We should just reach out; sit alongside them; listen; wait; watch; and, respect the other person’s needs. This is hard to do as we want to help and we are conditioned to try to find the “right thing” to say or the “right thing” to do to take away the pain. In truth, we often try to find these solutions because of the discomfort we feel in seeing something else upset, sad or in a difficult moment. But we should try to remind ourselves that we are all different and what we may need is not necessarily what others need in a similar situation.

Part of my journey to understanding myself in recent years, especially after my breakdown, has been in truly accepting who I am and what I need in life to be happy. Quite often, including since dad died, that is quiet and space. I have owned that and made sure I got it.

Yesterday - New Year’s Eve - would have been my dad’s 87th birthday,  something he shared with Sir Anthony Hopkins, one of his favourite actors. Sir Anthony shared more than just a birthday with my dad: he shared a philosophy on life, which he expresses every year on 29th December - that is the date his sobriety began, 49 years ago. Their shared philosophy was about making the most of every day. My dad used to say that this life is not a dress rehearsal and that we shouldn’t worry about today but should go for it, making the most of the day ahead. Sir Anthony expresses it beautifully with a quotation I draw on regularly in my own life: “Today was the tomorrow you worried about yesterday”.

As we enter 2025, I am re-dedicating myself to that philosophy: to the idea of savouring every day; being present; controlling the things we can control; and, living life as much as possible in the moment.

I will be doing that for me and my life, but also as a tribute to my dad.