Let’s talk regret

Let’s talk regret

Regret is rarely about the big, dramatic things.

It’s not usually “I wish I bought the bigger house.” It’s more often:

“I wish I had said I love you more.”
“I wish I hadn’t held onto that fight.”
“I wish my family knew what I actually wanted.”

In end of life spaces, regret shows up in whispers. In hospital rooms, in waiting areas, and in adult children trying to guess what Mum would have wanted.

And here’s the hard truth: most regret isn’t about dying… it’s about not living honestly before we do.

The Three Most Common Regrets I See

1. Not Having the Conversation
Families scrambling because no one talked about preferences, values, or medical decisions. Avoidance feels easier… until it’s urgent.

2. Leaving Things Unsaid
Old arguments, unfinished forgiveness, and unexpressed pride. Silence feels safe in the moment… it becomes heavy later.

3. Confusing Legacy with Money
People think legacy is about assets and wills. It’s not. Legacy is:
• Stories
• Values
• Voice
• Clarity
• Emotional permission

Money is practical, legacy is personal.

Regret is a teacher

Regret isn’t here to shame you, it’s purely information, and it tells you what matters.

If you feel a pang when you think about:

  • Not having an Advanced Health Directive

  • Not writing letters to your kids

  • Not clarifying your wishes

  • Not repairing a relationship

That feeling isn’t morbid, it’s wisdom, and I hope you listen to that.

You Don’t Have to Wait for a Crisis

Planning your end of life doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It means you care enough to make it easier for the people you love.

It means:
“I don’t want you guessing.”
“I don’t want you fighting.”
“I don’t want you carrying uncertainty.”

That’s not dark, it’s bloody generous.

My question to you…

If something happened tomorrow, what would you regret not doing today?

Start there – that’s your first step.

If you’re ready to move from avoidance to clarity, Dead Honest Club® exists for exactly that.

Because regret is heavy, but preparation? 
That’s peace, baby!

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Anticipatory Grief is a Mindf*ck

Anticipatory Grief is a Mindf*ck

Let’s be real: Grief doesn’t wait until after someone dies to show up.

Sometimes, it creeps in while you’re still booking appointments, still making cups of tea, still watching their chest rise and fall while silently begging it not to stop. That’s anticipatory grief, the heartbreak that hits before the final goodbye.

And if you’re a carer? You’re probably drowning in it while also trying to keep everything else afloat.

So What Is Anticipatory Grief, Anyway?

It’s grief in advance.

You’re mourning what’s to come; the loss of a person, yes, but also the loss of who they were, the life you had, the future you imagined.

You might feel:

  • Numb and detached one minute, painfully emotional the next

  • Angry at the world (or at them, yep, that’s normal too)

  • Guilty for wanting it to be over, and then guilty for feeling guilty

  • Like no one understands because “they’re still alive” and “you should be grateful”

Spoiler: all of that is normal. Anticipatory grief is complex, invisible, and isolating as hell.

If You’re a Carer, You’re Probably Burnt Out and Emotionally Bankrupt.

Let’s talk straight: Caring is holy work, but it’s also hard, unrelenting, unpaid (or underpaid), and emotionally brutal. You’re holding someone else’s pain while your own world quietly cracks underneath you.

And yet? You’re expected to keep showing up. Every. Damn. Day.

So, How Do You Look After You?

Here’s some Dead Honest self-care; not spa-day fluff, but actual life-support stuff.

1. Lower the Bar

Today, success might look like brushing your teeth and sending one email. That’s enough. Let it be enough.

2. Say the Hard Things

Talk to someone. A friend, a therapist, a doula, your cat, whoever listens without fixing. Name the feelings. Rage if you need to. Cry ugly.

3. Make Space for Micro-Moments

You don’t need a weekend away. You need five minutes with the sun on your face. A song that feels like a hug. One good breath.

4. Get Support (and Say Yes to It)

Dead Honest Club isn’t just here for the dying. We’re here for you,  the one doing the quiet labour of love in the background. Book a grief chat. Come to a group. You don’t have to earn it by “falling apart.” Support is for the strong too.

5. Let It Be Messy

There’s no gold star for coping “gracefully.” Scream into a pillow. Leave the dishes. Be human.

You Deserve Support Too.

This grief you’re carrying before the end? It’s real. And it’s valid. Your care matters. And so do you.

You don’t have to be stoic. You don’t have to do it all alone. Reach out. Talk. Breathe. Cry. Laugh at something stupid. Let us walk beside you through the mess.

Need a place to offload?

Book in for a chat, a grief session, or just slide into our inbox with whatever’s on your chest.

We’re not here to fix you.
We’re here to fcking see you.*

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The Dead Honest Way to Companion the Bereaved

The Dead Honest Way to Companion the Bereaved

The Dead Honest Way to Companion the Bereaved

Grief doesn’t need fixing, it needs witnessing.

It’s not a “get well soon” situation. It’s not a phase to rush through or a problem to solve with Pinterest quotes and casseroles.

At Dead Honest Club, we show up for grief the same way we show up for death;  unfiltered, fully present, and fiercely compassionate. Inspired by Dr. Alan Wolfelt’s 11 Tenets of Companioning, we’ve reimagined what it truly means to hold space for someone in mourning without trying to clean it up or make it make sense.

Because here’s the truth:
Grief is chaotic. It’s sacred. It’s not linear, logical, or polite and neither is the support it needs.

We don’t lead the grieving. We walk beside them. We don’t offer answers. We honour their questions.

We don’t pathologize pain. We validate it, make space for it, and sit in the silence with them when words won’t cut it.

We believe:
🖤 That mourning is a right, not something to be hidden behind “I’m fine.”
🖤 That the bereaved are the experts on their own experience, we’re just here to hold the damn lantern.
🖤 That empathy trumps advice. Always.
🖤 That companioning means listening with your whole heart, even when it’s breaking too.
🖤 That our presence matters more than our words, and that sometimes, just breathing together in the dark is enough.

This isn’t a guide for “getting over it.” This is a call to show the fck up*… fully, honestly, and without the pressure to fix what can’t be fixed.

💀 1. You’re the expert on your grief.

We’re not here to diagnose you or dissect your pain. You tell us what hurts, and we’ll walk with you through it.

💀 2. We’re not here to lead, fix, or preach.

You don’t need a guru. You need a witness. We’re not above you or ahead of you — we’re beside you, hand on heart.

💀 3. We hold space, not silence.

When grief makes the room heavy, we don’t change the subject. We stay in it with you.
No pressure to talk. No awkward vibes. Just presence.

💀 4. We honour the stillness.

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do is shut up and sit with you. Not everything needs words. Some pain just needs company.

💀 5. We walk at your pace.

No timelines. No “shoulds.” Whether you’re deep in the fog or just trying to breathe again, we’re here for your rhythm.

💀 6. We don’t judge the mess.

Tears, rage, numbness, dark humour, guilt, relief — all normal. All welcome. There’s no “right” way to grieve, only your way.

💀 7. We honour your loved one — not just your loss.

Grief is love with nowhere to go. We help you find ways to remember, speak their name, and hold onto the beautiful, weird, wild imprint they left behind.

💀 8. We’re not afraid of pain.

Grief is raw and relentless. Most people tiptoe around it. Not us. We won’t flinch, look away, or rush you past it.

💀 9. We listen more than we talk.

You don’t need advice. You need someone who gets it and isn’t trying to clean it up or shrink it down.

💀 10. We’re cool with the mystery.

Some stuff doesn’t make sense — ever. We’re not here to wrap grief in a bow. We’re here to help you sit with the unknown.

💀 11. We’re guided by compassion, not fear.

Your grief isn’t too much. You’re not too much. You’re human — and this space is built to hold all of it.

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