This has always been true. The Berlin-based, Peruvian artist creates vibrant, kaleidoscopic house shaped by her great emotions and her even greater loves. She’s named an EP after her mother, Fresia, and a track after the neurosurgeon who saved her mother’s life. Now, in 2026, she offers what she calls her “grief compilation” to the world—her contribution to the revered DJ-Kicks series, released just months after her mother’s death.

“Going through each song it felt like telling the story of saying goodbye to my mum,” she told me. “This beautiful melancholy but also with this power to keep moving.”

A DJ, producer, vocalist and activist, Sofia describes herself as “a big dreamer” who is “very passionate about a lot of things.” Her work draws not only from her family, but from life in Peru and championing the queer community, something her mother also dedicated her life to.

This is perhaps the rawest conversation I’ve had for My Mum Loved This Song. When we spoke, Sofia was just seven months into life without her mum. I’m so grateful for her openness, and for her willingness to share how she’s been feeling in the midst of deep, deep grief. It felt like we truly connected through our shared experience. At its core, that’s why this newsletter exists.

Thank you for reading. If someone you love is grieving, please share this with them. And if you’re able to subscribe to the paid tier, I donate 50 percent of the money to Cancer Research UK.

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Who are you remembering today?

My mum. Her name is Fresia Cecilia Hidalgo Moreno. She was my favourite human in the world.

She was a beautiful soul, and the warmest person on earth. She loved to give hugs and look after people. She worked as a politician for the left Democrats in Peru, and she looked after the queer community and trans women. She was always fighting for gender liberty in South America, which is very, very hard.

She adopted a lot of young people as her own children. She always wanted to make sure that everybody got a fair education.

I miss her so much, because she was such a beautiful driving force. I used to speak to her every day on the phone. Right now, I’m trying my best, because it’s very new, seven months since she died of cancer. Sometimes I imagine she’s on holiday. But then the truth hits you again. The only thing you can do is learn how to handle the pain. When you lose your mum, you lose your home.

She sounds like an extraordinary person.

I would love to talk about her as if she’s still here. She is an extraordinary person. She’s my muse. She’s everything.

Seven months is just no time at all. Thank you for sharing a bit about her. I’ve been thinking about reframing this question a bit, so it’s not in past tense, so what is your relationship with her like today?

I try to tell her to send me signs. I told her once, before she died, that if she’s near me, she should somehow make Édith Piaf play. Like when I’m travelling, and I listen to a song without choosing to play it, it’s like she wants to tell me something.

I always try to communicate with her. It sounds crazy, but I talk to her.

That doesn’t sound crazy to me at all.

I still text her when something sad or something happy happens, or on her birthday or on certain months since her death. In South America we always celebrate these dates—half year, one year—I light a candle, or write her a message and ask how she is. I listen to her voice messages a lot. I look after her things, her plants, her garden.

I want to believe there is something beautiful. Because otherwise… where do they go? Where is my mum? Where is your mum?

I don’t know if you feel the same, but it’s like you don’t know where you belong anymore. It’s so sad they will never meet our children, if we have them, or whatever our life becomes. Will they see it from, I don’t know, another sphere? There are so many questions. I thought about trying to contact her through a medium, but I don’t want to do that and for her energy to be interrupted. I just hope that wherever she is, she’s not alone, and she has a lot of happiness, and a lot of time listening to Édith Piaf.

That’s a nice segue into my next question, which is about the music that really makes you think of her.

At the moment, when I listen to Joy Division, I have to think about her. Also Caribou. I cannot listen to Édith Piaf right now, because I will break, but she had such an eclectic music taste. She loved Nina Simone and Billie Holiday, and we used to listen to Four Tet a lot. Aphex Twin, too. She also loved Kate Bush and Talking Heads. We had very similar taste. We were really into jazz. The beautiful moments we’d share, we’d always be listening to Nina Simone or some Peruvian music like Susana Baca. She also really loved rock, like The Cure. I don’t know if I would agree with her on this, but she really liked Coldplay. I was like, “Okay! We don’t have to agree on everything!”

She was really into electronic music at the end, because she loved to come and visit me in the studio, or sometimes at home. When I was looking after her, I was always creating. She would come and dance—she was so cute.

Very broad taste!

She had every kind of taste. She loved listening to new music, she would always ask if I had new friends in music or go and look on Spotify for new artists to listen to. It was very beautiful. Before the cancer was really bad, we would go to festivals together.

If you picture her enjoying music at home, what’s the image that comes to mind?

When I was growing up, she would come home after work and always have music on. In South America, when we cook or clean, we always have music. Peruvian music, cumbia, everything. She would always be dancing with a mop while cleaning the floor. She would teach me how to dance to rock music. And when she was cooking, she would use the cooking things like instruments, it was so funny.

We had a keyboard and a piano at home, and my dad was in a rock band, so we grew up with a lot of music. I really remember those moments when she was happy, dancing and cooking.

You mentioned going to festivals together, what sticks out in your memory from those experiences?

I was scared, because with cancer you lose your immune system. When you love somebody more than yourself, you just want them to be happy. But I was scared it could be the last time. I took her and her friends to one of my headline shows in Peru, even though the doctor told me not to. They drank wine and beer. It was very loud, but she was so happy.

Now I think I have less fear around death, my relationship with it has changed. Because there’s nothing the world could take away that will hurt me more than my mum. It feels like there’s nothing worse that could happen. But you also need to believe there is hope.

I feel bad that I get this feeling, but I find myself feeling very jealous that my mum is not here. Why did it happen to her? Why am I so jealous of other people having a mum? I always try and say after my shows, “Love your mum. You’re so lucky.” People will always try and be there for you but no one will ever be your mama.

I completely empathise with that feeling of jealousy. Spending time with people and their mums can be really hard. One of the things I have learned over the years is that I can be sad, angry and jealous, while also being really happy for the person I love that they are able to have a relationship with their mum. Those two feelings can coexist. But in the immediate aftermath, I didn’t have that balance, you see red and feel so angry because it’s just so unfair.

Jealousy is normal.

Absolutely.

Because sometimes I think, what is wrong with me? Why am I acting like this?

I think it’s important to acknowledge those feelings. Grief can make you feel like you’re going crazy but you’re not, you’re just going through something that’s so sad and you’re in a whirlwind of emotions. It’s an expression of this deep, deep love you have for your mum.

I think what we should do is try to follow their path and do the things they loved to do. My mum loved her community work, her plants, cooking and reading, and I’m trying to copy a lot of that, to feel like she’s there.

What music have you been listening to recently that helps you?

I think before I can feel good again, I need to listen to music she liked. Bruce Springsteen’s “Streets of Philadelphia” is on my playlist at the moment, and Nina Simone all the time, of course.

You need to feel the pain. Never hide it, because in the end that will be even worse.

I’ve also been listening to the Lost in Translation soundtrack, Joy Division’s “Transmission,” Björk—she’s like an angel—FKA Twigs, Rosalía, Kate Bush, Frank Ocean, Sampha, then Bad Bunny when I want to feel, like, “Come on Sofia!”

Good techno sometimes, too. It’s like 50/50, melancholy and then something to keep moving. I love being in Berlin because the electronic music is so diverse. I listen to a lot of different things, but when it comes to getting into my emotions, it’s this kind of selection.

You’ve mentioned Nina Simone a few times, is there a particular song that stands out?

There was one song actually, but by Billie Holiday, “Strange Fruit.” I also really think about how much she loved the Kraftwerk song “Tour de France,” and Lana Del Rey’s “Blue Velvet.” I love that song, it’s so beautiful, she sounds like a classic Hollywood voice.

How has making music been for you, have you found it cathartic to keep working?

Yes. When I was working on my DJ-Kicks compilation, I needed something to open people’s hearts. That’s why it was so important to get Jon Hopkins on this project, because he’s the only person who can bring this sound. It’s this feeling of pain, but beauty at the same time.

Doing this was very important to me. Going through each song it felt like telling the story of saying goodbye to my mum, this beautiful melancholy but also with this power to keep moving. It was like the answer to my why, how can I work through this? It’s my grief compilation.

DJ-Kicks: Sofia Kourtesis is out now.

As two people who both built careers around talking about music, this week’s guest and I laughed as we realised the irony of what we were agreeing on. But of course it’s true, music isn’t impactful because of what you have to say about it, it’s how it makes you feel. And in teacher and writer Hugh Taylor’s case, he was able to offer his late mother, Marie, comfort by way of hours-long ambient mixes he would record and play for her when she was sick. They never explicitly spoke about the mixes, but that was the music Marie would regularly choose to listen to in the final chapter of her life.

Today, Hugh is a primary school teacher, and he writes his own Substack, Skill Issue. He was formerly a music journalist and worked in event management at Resident Advisor. We actually first worked together way back in 2012 when I was a shy but enthusiastic intern for RA in Ibiza, and Hugh would help me get tickets on sale for parties on the island. He also used to run a festival called KALLIDA, which I only ever heard fantastic things about, but sadly never got to attend.

Hugh’s mum passed away nine years ago, and in this conversation we went deep on how our relationships change with our people after they’ve died. He also spoke about his fun, strong mum, how she cherished the music he chose for her, and how his clearest vision of her enjoying music is listening to Gregorian chanting on Christmas morning.

For this edition of My Mum Loved This Song, 50 percent of the money from paid subscriptions will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so please consider joining the paid tier if you can. Thank you for reading.

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Who are you remembering today?

My mum, Marie. She was a Kiwi. I was born in the UK, but I did spend a big part of my early childhood in New Zealand. It’s a big part of my life.

She was great fun, a real entertainer. Quite loud, as am I. Our whole family is loud. She didn’t take nonsense from people. Not necessarily outspoken publicly, but she was a very strong lady. A big character.

What was your relationship like with her?

Like most parent-child relationships, it would get strained at times, but we were very close. Your relationship with your parents changes so many times. The teenage years were probably the hardest stretch.

Same for me, too. The first interview I did for this series was with Amber who runs The Grief Gang, and she said something I found interesting, which is that she thinks of her relationship with her mum as ongoing. It made me think about it in a different way, because one of the hardest things is not having that relationship anymore.

I think about that quite a lot. If there’s one thing, it’s that my mum will never meet my fiancé, and she’s never going to know that I became a teacher. She was a serious atheist, so it feels weird to talk about her in that way because of her own beliefs and how strict she was.

Is there a song, record or artist that really reminds you of her?

There isn’t, really. Our relationship with music was quite weird and interesting. The sound I associate with her most is soul. That’s what she would relate to the most, or think of playing the most when I was growing up. Otis Redding, Sam Cooke, Booker T. & the M.G.’s, artists like that were a big part of her life. I appreciated it, and I’d singalong, but I was always more excited by the music my dad would play. He loved post-punk and hippy stuff, like Talking Heads, Devo and Grateful Dead.

But as I grew up, and music was becoming more of my identity because I was working in music, despite the fact I didn’t really relate to her taste, there was still a shared interest. I knew a lot of music, so things like gift buying became key. What do I know about that you might like, or that you might not know about? Music was always my first port of call for gifts.

I’d buy both mum and dad records or CDs. When I’d get my dad a record, he’d listen to it, he’d be into it and he’d talk to me about it, and then I don’t think he’d ever listen to it again. But I noticed my mum would listen to these albums for years. I remember buying her D’Angelo’s album Black Messiah and Process by Sampha, which she loved.

And then, maybe a year before she was ill, I was doing an ambient show on Radar Radio for a friend. She listened to it and she really liked it, which I wasn’t expecting. And that didn’t really come up again until she was really sick. I moved back home for a bit, and I’d make hours and hours of ambient mixes, sometimes ten-hours long. And as she deteriorated she’d have those mixes playing all the time.

Towards the end of her life, we’d laugh a lot when she could, and talk, but a huge part of our communication in that time was music.

Those mixes were obviously really soothing for her.

Exactly. It was stuff like Visible Cloaks, that sort of era, and I haven’t really gone back to a lot of that music. Background music is for when the time’s right, anyway, I’m not going to put on an ambient record on my way to work in the mornings.

Did you ever talk about the music, or was it this unspoken thing you were doing for her?

She didn’t really like talking about music. She appreciated it, but I think, looking back, I don’t know if she thought of music as something that was nice but ultimately frivolous, or she just didn’t feel like she had the capacity to communicate about it in the ways other people were.

She was a weirdly private person for someone who was quite loud and outspoken. Just before the funeral, my dad told me he never knew how she voted, but she just thought that was something you didn’t speak about. There were plenty of those things. And I remember her saying she loved music, but I don’t remember her ever saying why.

That’s one of the beautiful things about it, you don’t need to talk about it, even though both of us made careers out of that!

Exactly. It does the job by being on. You don’t necessarily need the conversation around it, especially if you’re both in the room listening to the same thing.

What comes to mind when you picture her enjoying music?

In terms of the iconic vision of my mum listening to music, it would be Christmas, and she’d be listening to Gregorian chanting. She was really big on that. And she’d listen to classical music that reminded her of her dad.

I think of her on Christmas morning. Remember those CD players that had like five CDs? I remember her taking out all the CDs that weren’t Gregorian chanting so we couldn’t put it on random. I think that routine of old religious music, which is quite strange, considering she was an atheist, really anchored her to points in time. It reminded her of her childhood and her dad, and then I imagine a lot of the soul music would remind her of being a teenager.

Do you think your relationship with music has changed since she died?

Oh, massively. It will be nine years since she died this year. You know, I don’t work full-time in music anymore, and even as a journalist, I don’t write about much music anymore. I only actively look for new music for albums I want to listen to on public transport, and in terms of dance music, it’ll only be if I’ve got a gig coming up and I need to refresh some folders.

I’m not nearly as obsessed with music as I used to be. I still listen to music all the time, it’s still really important, but there was a time when it was everything in my life. So, that’s the biggest change.

Are there any records or artists that have really helped you navigate grief?

The big one is “Someone Great” by LCD Soundsystem, and it always will be.

Oh god, definitely.

It can’t have been that close to her death, but I remember seeing them at Alexandra Palace and I just properly started crying when it played. And then being immediately taken out of it because some guy in a suit next to me started talking about football or something. But I remember thinking about it and being like, “This song really says it all.”

And in retrospect, David Bowie’s Blackstar is another. When Bowie died, both my mum and my sister texted me saying, “Hugh, I’m so sorry.” I looked at those texts and I thought, “Oh god. Bowie’s dead.” There’s only one reason those two people would send me that exact message.

Everything about that album, how it was made and the story behind it, listening to it once and then listening after he died. He died a year before mum, and, in a funny way, it was a big grief. Well, I thought it was a big grief and then mum died and I realised it wasn’t a big grief at all. But they were close together, and there was an emotional link there. So that album really does remind me of her and particularly her death.

Do you still listen to it?

I don’t find it difficult to listen to, I still quite like it. I find it very emotional, but I think normally if I’m listening to music, it’s because I’m consciously deciding to be in that space. I find parental death in films much more difficult, especially if I’m not expecting it, it will absolutely sucker punch me. It’s stuff like that I find difficult.

Is there any music you’ve heard recently that your mum would have liked?

My taste has actually drifted even further from hers. In fact, there’s a lot of stuff I go back to now which I know she hated! Music I listened to as a teenager that’s now much more prevalent in my life. She hated My Chemical Romance and a lot of punk and noisier stuff—she’d have no interest whatsoever.

That said, she’d like Lorde because she’s a Kiwi. She wouldn’t get the music as much, but I must have played her Melodrama. And I think she’d understand why people love Chappell Roan, even if she didn’t love it herself.

How do you like to honour her memory in your day to day?

By trying to be the best person I can be, someone she’d be proud of. I think she’d be proud of my role in society, being a primary school teacher. I think she thought it was cool I worked in music, but I don’t think she ever thought it was worthwhile, you know?

I think she’d be proud of the relationship that I’m in, the friends I still have. I think about her a lot and I think about how much I wish she could see that. And how much I hope she was wrong and that there is some kind of knowledge after death, because I know she’d be very happy seeing where I am now. But I don’t have any routines around it.

I don’t think it needs to be routine. What could be a better way of honouring her than living your life in a way you know would make her happy and proud?

If anything, I think my relationship with mum has really crystallised since she died. It’s become even more personal. There’s something great about that. And about realising all the things she did for me. Something I’d completely forgotten about was when I was applying to schools. I’d got into a few schools, one was the local school where I wanted to go, one was a co-ed grammar school, one was an all-boys grammar school and one was a private school they were thinking about. And my mum was like, “Do not go to the boys’ school, and don’t go to the private school. You’ll hate it.”

That was one of the few ways I ever did see her politics, really, being socially liberal. So thinking about that and how I really took it to heart, that really did change my life in this one moment.

What advice would you give to someone who’s grieving?

A lot of the advice you hear is like, it’s not that it gets better, you’re just going to change. It helps that I taught a lesson on this a few hours ago, but when I think of that from a Buddhist perspective it’s like, well when weren’t you changing? So, this is another change, and change is painful and scary, but change is a constant part of life. And you’re going to find that everything that person did for you, and everything that your relationship was, is probably going to get stronger.

Is there anything else you’d like to add?

This isn’t directly because of our relationship with music, but it does link here, which is that the first KALLIDA nearly didn’t happen for me because mum had just fallen into a coma. Her palliative care nurse told me she’d be alive for at least another week, and that I should go for 24 hours because it’s what she’d want me to do.

That was a tough 24 hours. I played three sets, didn’t sleep because I was in a completely mad headspace. I spent loads of money on last-minute train tickets. Partly because of the date, it always did colour my experience of the festival. Even when you’re not looking at dates, or thinking about anniversaries, and then your heart sinks for a few days and you think, “What is going on?” You can’t work it out and then… it hits. We are completely wired to the Gregorian calendar.

The body keeps the score.

The body keeps the score, and the referee’s a wanker! But yeah, that’s not such a fun way it affected my relationship with music. It was a weird thing to be balancing when we did the festival.

The palliative care nurse gave you the right advice, though.

Absolutely. Mum did wake up for a little bit afterwards, too, and we did get to speak about it.

I’ve also been feeling weird in my grief lately. I go through phases where my brain goes all existential and at the same time quite numb, this sort of dull, flat feeling that can come with such light-hearted thoughts as: “I will never see my mum again,” or “Am I going to get sick, too? What will happen when I’m older?”

I’m going to take a wild guess that there’s a connection between how I’ve been feeling and the fact I’ve been inundated with Mother’s Day emails and IRL reminders for weeks now. This week, I’ve had to silence my bloody Klarna notifications, because apparently a Klarna gift card is something I could get for my mum! Lovely! (Zero shade to anyone who gets that as a pressie, but come on, it’s a lot.) Sometimes putting the newsletter together is a huge help for me, but there are times when it can feel very dense, and I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.

All of this said, I’ve decided to use today’s belated edition to share a somewhat haphazard list of things (beyond my usual musings on dancing and Jayda G) that have helped me in grief. I’m extremely grateful that there’s a few things in there that exist because of people that have featured in My Mum Loved This Song, so it’s also a chance to shout them out again. I’m grateful to anyone who takes their grief and uses it to help others. And I’m grateful to everyone who I can grieve in the company of—you know who you are.

If Mother’s Day is going to be hard for you this year, for any reason, I send all my love to you and I hope something here offers a glimmer of solace. And remember, it’s just a day, and soon it will be over.

I donate 50 percent of the money I make from paid subscriptions to charity. If you’re able, a paid subscription is £4 a month. Huge gratitude to all subscribers, paid or otherwise! Thank you for reading.

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1. The Grief Gang

Amber Jeffrey, the founder of The Grief Gang, was the first guest on this series, and I reached out to her precisely because of the impact the platform has had on me. I can’t recommend her work enough.

Read the interview

2. Charli xcx - how i’m feeling now (2020)

If you know me, you know I am a serious Charli stan, and this album came out just as my mum was going into hospital for the last time. I listened to it over and over and over again as I navigated the most tumultuous weeks of my life. There was something about her making a record in this environment, when we were all separated from our loved ones, that dug the music deeper and deeper into my brain and body.

3. The My Mum Loved This Song playlist

I add to this playlist with each newsletter I publish. I love how varied the music is, and how it all has this special meaning for my guests and their people. It was about time I added some Charli in here.

4. The New Happy

One of my best friends introduced me to this weekly newsletter, in which all of the insights are founded on academic studies and the platform’s own research. It’s very simple, a graphic illustration with a short corresponding message, and it always captures a very human tendency and shows how we can reframe it, or remember that we are doing a good job even when it feels like the opposite. You can find out more about it here.

5. Ice cream (in tubs)

I can’t remember the exact flavour now, I think it had rose in it, but there was a particular Waitrose ice cream that became something of a crutch when my mum was in the hospice. By day, we went to see her and sat by her bed and played music even though we didn’t know if she could hear us. By night, I’d sink into the same spot on the sofa, put a blanket over myself and absent-mindedly eat most or all of a tub of this ice cream while watching her favourite films. I kind of dread to think how many full tubs of ice cream I ate during that time, but then again, my mum was dying so who fucking cares? Which is to say: eat the treat.

6. The Neopolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante

Sometimes the best thing you can do is immerse yourself in great storytelling. The Neopolitan Novels capture my imagination in such a way it’s like I’m pulled out of my body and on to the streets of Naples. I re-read this series again since losing my mum and it remains among my favourite things I’ve ever read.

7. Things You Only Know When Your Parents Are Dead by Joel Golby

“Instances of grief, I have found, are unique, two never coming in the same shape, and they can be piercing and hard-edged and they can be like passing through deep dark treacle or they can be like a long, slow-passing cloud, it can make everything grey or everything sharp, it can hit you like a truck or it can hit you like cholesterol. There is no one single catch-all solution to dealing with the worst life has to throw at you because life has such a habit of swinging you curveballs.
But what I do always say is: oh man, this is going to suck.”

8. Reality television (various)

Eternal thanks to the housewives of several franchises (love you forever Beverly Hills), to the cast of Vanderpump Rules and the increasingly batshit Selling Sunset women for being so ridiculous that I can reliably switch my brain off from the things it’s worried about and indulge in their drama and shrieking. This is meant to be a silly one but it’s also deadly serious, excuse the deadly.

9. Languages of Loss by Sasha Bates

This is another incredible book that one of my best friends sent me. She told me how it had resonated with her in her own grief. It was the same for me; it’s some of the most honest and profound writing I have read about grief and death, written from the perspective of a psychotherapist who lost her husband very suddenly.

If you read my recent solo edition about Jill signs—the unexplainable, magical ways my mum makes herself present in my life—I had another just this moment, while writing. I had this pink bookmark from my mum that I used religiously after she died, until I lost it. It’s kind of cheesy (it’s giving stocking filler) but it says: “My daughter. Since the day you were born our love has grown deep, a special bond that’s ours to keep.”

I got my copy of Languages of Loss down from the bookshelf a few days ago and it’s been sitting by my desk. I’ve just opened the front of the book, and, along with a letter from my friend, there is the damn bookmark. Our love runs deep, mumma.

Signing off with an assortment of other books I would recommend for validation or escapism:

· Cariad Lloyd – You Are Not Alone

· Delia Owens – Where the Crawdads Sing

· Joan Didion – The Year of Magical Thinking

· Matt Haig – The Midnight Library

· Megan Devine – It’s OK That You’re Not OK

· Michelle Zauner – Crying in H Mart

· Olivia Potts - A Half Baked Idea (Read Olivia’s edition of My Mum Loved This Song)

· Tracy Chevalier – Remarkable Creatures

Read the rest of the series

I think a lot about the life moments that happen on benches like my mum’s. My brother proposed to his now-wife on a memorial bench. People will meet, catch up, fall in love, get engaged, break up, make up and indulge in putting the world to rights on memorial benches. Others will sit to soak in the view or take a pause, turn to look at the plaque and then wonder about the person whose bench they’re sitting on. Think of all the people that have sat on my mum’s bench and then wondered about her and her life. I think that’s so special.

This is something I spoke about with today’s guest, Jocelyn Meek, who has a bench for her late father, Alan, in a London park—the same park that cropped up in his bedtime stories for her, about her dog going out on adventures.

Jocelyn is a music publicist at the award-winning London-based agency Wired PR. Since launching in 2013, Wired has worked with a huge roster of artists, including Stormzy, Little Simz, AJ Tracey, Central Cee, Kehlani, Jorja Smith and Interplanetary Criminal. Jocelyn attributes much of her appreciation for music and the world-building around it to a childhood where music was constantly playing—her dad opting for the likes of Supertramp, David Bowie and Prince, while her mum loved punk and dance acts like Faithless. If her dad were here today, she says, she’d love to be able to share the breadth of her roster with him.

I loved this conversation with Jocelyn, and we covered a lot of ground, from saving all her money to attend Coldplay shows, to how liquid drum & bass “changes her cells” and how finding a way to express yourself in grief is crucial to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

For this edition of My Mum Loved This Song, 50 percent of the money from paid subscriptions will be split between Cancer Research UK and NACOA. If you’re able to, paid subscriptions are £4 per month.

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Thank you for reading. If you know someone who might find some comfort in this series, please share it with them <3

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Can you tell us a bit about yourself and what you do?

I’m Jocelyn Meek. I’m a publicist at Wired PR, where I’ve been for nearly 13 years, which is crazy. We’re a boutique agency specialising in helping amazingly talented people share their messages and ideas in creative ways. I’m a very creative person, I love to be busy and I love to be organised.

And who are you remembering today?

My dad, Alan, who passed away when I was 26. He was born on January 1st, which I think is quite an amazing fact about him.

Can you tell me a bit about him and what your relationship was like?

My dad is my favourite human I’ve ever met in my entire life. Even now. He was a very gentle, loving, kind, supportive parent. I equate my loss of him with my loss of self-worth and confidence, because he was my biggest cheerleader. He was just a lovely man.

He was also incredibly hardworking and generous. I was talking to my brother earlier about this interview, and we were thinking about the music my dad enjoyed, and we remembered that all he would ever ask for at Christmas was a CD. It sparked a memory for us that he never bought anything for himself. We struggled quite a lot financially when I was growing up, and he definitely spent anything extra he had on us, his family, rather than himself.

Is there a particular song, record or artist that really reminds you of him?

I was thinking long and hard about this, and I’m going to split the answer up a bit. So, there’s a band that is integral to my dad, and that’s Supertramp, especially the album Breakfast in America. The artwork with the woman holding up the orange juice, that’s an image that’s imprinted in my mind. When I was growing up, we had that album on vinyl and it used to be on a lot.

I also used to pick which record to put on and I would often choose Blur, “There’s No Other Way.” Putting records on was a big, fun thing in our house, especially as a kid, and, yeah, Supertramp has huge memories for us. We actually played them at his funeral. He was also a huge David Bowie fan, as well as Paul Weller, Prince and Whitney Houston. And one song he put on a lot was Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing.”

When you picture music at home growing up, what’s the image that comes to mind?

Always the kitchen. We had what would now be the most laughable stereo setup, but at the time we thought it was the best thing ever. You know the ones that had two CDs, two tapes and the radio? It was always loaded up. Our house was never without music. To this day, I leave music on when I leave my house, and when I’m home I’ll have it on most of the day unless I’ve got calls.

My dad was such a chilled and amenable person, and so I think it would often be my mum in charge of the music selection. She loved punk, electronic stuff like Faithless, and she also loved George Michael. She was into more current music as well, she’d randomly turn up with, like, the Chipmunk “Oopsy Daisy” single from Woolworths, or Travis and Coldplay.

I loved Coldplay when I was growing up. I played their songs on the piano and I’d save all my money to get tickets to their shows, and then later drum & bass shows. I had very eclectic influences that I can see in my music taste still now. But yeah, the stereo would be on from the moment somebody woke up, and my dad would always be up at the crack of dawn. If the music wasn’t on yet, he’d be mowing the lawn or something and we’d all be woken up by that.

Do you think growing up in a house with music playing all the time has influenced what you do now?

Definitely. I’ve always loved music, and that must be why. I imagine that even starts before you’re born. You know, the sounds, vibrations and energy. I equate music with joy, even when stuff wasn’t easy, or we weren’t in nice situations. Also, being able to be silent together in a way, in the car, listening to music. My dad and I did long drives together to and from school and we’d always listen to the radio and I’d sing along. I would never sing in front of anyone, only my dad. It was such an unjudgemental, quiet space, where we found real euphoria in hearing sounds. I remember hearing Dizzee Rascal for the first time in the car with him, and him being like, “this is really good.” And then if it came back on, or if he heard it referenced somewhere else, he’d tell me about it.

So, I think that’s why it must be connected, because music was not only such a source of joy for me, but also a topic of conversation.

How does it feel now when you hear music that reminds you of your dad?

I’ve given you all references of joy, but there’s one song I can’t really listen to. Both my parents loved The Police and Sting. We played “Fields of Barley” at my dad’s funeral, and I just can’t do it. In that way, I can’t listen to things that remind me of his death, but apart from that, I always do feel joy when I remember the musical experiences of our life together, which is maybe quite unusual.

Do you think your relationship with music has changed since he died?

I don’t think so, luckily. It’s remained a real solace and passion for me. It’s such a great outlet. Whether I’m out listening to it live or I put it on, I love loud music and being able to really zone in. I think it’s always been an escape for me, but in a healthy way.

I think the same thing. I don’t think my relationship with music has changed since my mum died, because I’ve always emotionally connected to it so much, but I think it’s made me appreciate it even more.

Yeah, and the other thing I love about music is how it triggers my memory the same way a photo might. Music evokes that same reaction in my body as smell or taste, it’s such a sensory trigger that allows me to remember things.

And I enjoy remembering my dad. When I called my brother earlier today, he reminded me of a few other things I’d forgotten he used to listen to. My brother’s 11 years older than me, so he has his own memories of prominent music. I think that’s quite amazing, too, that one of my strongest memories can be driving on the North Circular hearing Dizzee Rascal’s “I Luv U” on radio for the first time, then my brother can have something like a David Bowie record.

Are there particular artists or genres that have helped you through difficult times?

Drum & bass is always a huge release for me, especially liquid drum & bass with a bit of a vocal. I think what I’m working out, as we have this conversation, is that I have to be distracted enough to feel the joy from the music. If it’s deeply instrumental, as much as I might like it, maybe it allows my brain to wander too much. But with drum & bass, if there’s something I can follow beyond the beat, it’s such a thing for me, I feel like it changes my cells.

I also love live bands and instruments. I remember going to the BBC 1Xtra Proms for the first time, and hearing UK rap and grime with a full orchestra, and thinking, “Oh my god, the combination from these worlds coming together is amazing.”

Rap in general is a huge part of my life. I really like the wittiness of wordplay and the intelligence behind excellent rap. I like to see skill in music, and obviously that’s so varied according to genre. I love for music to be incredibly well-put-together.

I was very lucky that my dad would take me to piano lessons from the age of about four. I was always saving up to go to gigs, and he’d drop me off and pick me up if I needed it. He really supported the whole journey for me. I think being able to explore so many different things, and find a shared love of so many genres, has allowed me to build a career and life in music. I think that’s what makes me good at my job, how passionate I am about everything I work on.

I have quite a sweet story. My dad wasn’t particularly compos mentis towards the end of his life, and there was a time when he was watching a jazz band on TV, and he ended up telling his friends that I was managing this band. At the time, I wasn’t managing anyone, but I think he just put two and two together and got the wrong end of the stick.

The band was GoGo Penguin. Fast forward however many years, I get this email from GoGo Penguin’s team, saying, “We know you don’t work with anyone like this at the moment, but we’d love to know if you’d be interested in coming on board.” It was crazy. I could actually look after this band like my dad had thought all those years before. I loved the idea that he was right.

Is there music you wish you could share with your dad now?

So much. Firstly, I would have loved to share my roster with him and see what he liked. I wish I could have that experience with him. I’m able to do that with my mum, and I really enjoy it, because she’s also brilliant with music and has excellent taste.

Then, more recently, I’ve thought he would have loved Olivia Dean. And Dave—his whole process, the performances at the BRITs, just his versatility, and the intelligence and skills so many musicians have outside of what’s expected from the genre, and how amazing music has become in that respect. How it’s not unusual to have UK rap infiltrated by guitars, or how AJ Tracey played the Pyramid Stage with a full rock band. I think my dad would have loved that.

He would have loved Stormzy at Glastonbury, too. And he also really liked Paloma Faith! Maybe there would be more to explore there now with her podcast. That was a funny niche of his.

How do you like to honour his memory today?

We have a bench for him in a London park. He didn’t want to be buried, he sort of hated the idea of it, even though we didn’t ever really discuss death. But that’s the one thing we were aware of. He’d joke about being cremated over anything else, so we honoured that.

I try to go when I can and not be too hard on myself when life gets in the way, because I know he’s always there. No matter what time of year I go, there’s always a robin there, and I know robins are very symbolic of people who’ve passed. I genuinely believe it’s him whenever I see the robin. It’s a special place. It’s tied to my childhood, too. He used to tell me bedtime stories about my dog going on adventures in that park.

I think a lot about all the life things that happen when somebody has a bench, all the conversations and connections that happen when people sit there. And the people that will look at the plaque and wonder who he was. So much happens there. I think it’s kind of magical.

Yeah, I always leave flowers on it. Not just a bunch of flowers, but I take them out and put them into the grooves of the bench, until you basically can’t sit on it! One time I arrived and there was a couple sitting there, and at first I thought, well, I don’t want to move them, but also what the hell?! And then I thought the same as you. There’s something great about the fact that even though I can only get there once or twice a year, he’s always got company. What really gets me, in a good way, is when my friends go through the park and they see the bench and send me a photo with their kids on it. I find that lovely.

If you could share one thing to help someone in their grief journey, what would it be?

Write it all down. Talk about it. Find people who understand. Your experience when you lose someone is always valid, and will also be helpful to somebody. If you’re struggling with it, you need to feel like you’re not alone.

Grief is one of the most universally felt, horrible things. Everybody goes through it at some point in their life. It’s important to vocalise what you need and find your peers.

There’s so much space for workshops and conversations for everybody. But I think especially for women, who, during grief and illness in families, often taken on the biggest burdens of care. Not always, I can’t generalise like that of course, but I think it’s a fairly united thing.

These things are so hard. Somebody just doesn’t exist all of a sudden, and with a parent, that means your life doesn’t make sense. You are literally here because of them. Losing a parent is so disorientating.

I think it’s really important, even if you don’t feel comfortable talking publicly about it, just try writing about it. Read, cry, watch films. I went straight back to work the next day, which at the time I thought was a good thing. But really, I just shoved so much down, that when I’d be upset for other reasons, it would all come out and be really intense for everyone around me. Letting it out and expressing yourself is just so important.

I don’t go a day without thinking about my dad. That’s just my life. I have life because of him.

A couple of weeks ago, I texted a friend to tell her I was thinking of her around the birthday of her late best friend. “He should be here, and he’s not,” she replied. “I don’t think I’ll ever really accept it.” That’s a sentence that echoes through grief, one so many of us will recognise. If part of us may never fully accept that our person is gone, then it makes a lot of sense to me that finding signs and moments of connection takes on such importance.

I’ve never been a religious person. I went to a Church of England school and sang in several choirs with varying levels of enthusiasm, but the thing I connected with most was the storytelling. Did I believe any of it? Honestly, no. But since my mum died, my relationship with spirituality has shifted. And that’s been a recurring thread in the conversations I’ve had for My Mum Loved This Song so far.

Is it because I need something, anything that connects me to her? Or because I’m desperate to know that, somehow, she is still out there watching over me? Is it because the loneliness can sometimes feel too much?

All of the above, probably, but the truth is this: there’s just been too many signs for it to be my grieving imagination playing tricks on me. So today, I want to tell some stories. Some are excerpts from letters I’ve written to my mum, and some are things I’ve experienced that I’m writing down for the first time. These are stories of Jill signs.

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The Mourning Diary

“Last Thursday in Porto, I cried in the most beautiful bookshop I’ve ever seen. I cried because I looked around at the books, and the ceiling, and the glossy staircase, and for a split second I wanted to send you a picture. I cried into my mask and I missed you so much it hurt my whole body. And then I looked up and I saw this black book, on its own on a shelf full of shiny fairy tales. Roland Barthes’ Mourning Diary. Who knew that Barthes, my university reading nemesis, wrote things down when he lost his mum? I guess this is my mourning diary.

Here is an extract from the first page that opened when I picked up the book, as if the book was asking me to read it.

‘Now, from time to time, there unexpectedly rises within me, like a bursting bubble: the realisation that she no longer exists, she no longer exists, totally and forever. This is a flat condition, utterly unadjectival – dizzying because meaningless (without any possible interpretation).

A new pain.’” November 9th, 2021

Bluebells

Some signs are quiet and repeat themselves. During lockdown, my boyfriend and I were lucky enough to be staying in the Cotswolds. The day before my 29th birthday, we drove to find a nearby bluebell woods for our sanctioned venture outdoors, and it became the place I’d go while making my way through Couch to 5K.

I’ve always had a special connection to bluebells, ever since my nanny (my mum’s mum) used to tell me stories about Fairy Bluebell, who lived in a toadstool at the end of the garden, and lemonade came out of her taps. I feel so calm when I’m surrounded by bluebells, looking out over the carpet of flowers and listening to the birdsong.

My mum went into hospital for the final time a couple of weeks after I discovered this particular bluebell wood. The flowers have a short life span, typically lasting just a few weeks, but the next time I went to the woods for a run, the bluebells were all dead. Symbolic, much?

Around a year later, as my mum’s first heavenly birthday approached, I felt a pull to go back to the same woods. Then, because it would have been a four-hour round trip, I decided to find some bluebells close to where my mum lived in East Sussex instead.

It’s become an annual tradition. In the time between my birthday and my mum’s, I take myself on a day trip to Hayward’s Heath. I have a particular spot I go to first, where I sit on a log, take deep breaths of non-London air and take some time to be still and quiet and in nature. Once I tried (emphasis on the tried) to draw my view with a BIC pen, and once I picked a bluebell and pressed it into my notebook. Another time I forgot my walking boots and it was so muddy I could barely get to the log. But every time, whatever the weather has been so far that day, the sun comes out and shines down on me, warm on my back as I sit here:

Ponies

Then there are signs that arrive so suddenly they make me laugh out loud.

My mum and I shared a love of horses. They were a constant in my childhood, and being around them still brings me a sense of calm. I don’t share that bond with anyone else now, so whenever I see horses, I pause and think of her.

The first time I went to the bluebell woods in 2021, the GPS took me on a different route on the way back. I was feeling pretty overwhelmed by the emotional day I’d had, and I just wanted to get home, but I followed the route off the motorway and down a country lane. I drove around a corner and gasped as I came face to face with a foal that was sticking its tiny head through the fence. I slowed down and I swear it looked directly into my eyes. A few minutes later, the same thing happened again, a little fluffy foal standing by the gate as if it was waiting for me. It was such an unlikely scenario that I laughed aloud. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was her way of saying, “I’m here.”

In 2022, a few days before we were finally able to host the celebratory memorial my mum so deserved, I went back to the bluebells again. As I was heading back to the car, for no particular reason I went off the route I was familiar with, followed the path and ended up at a dead end looking into a field. At that moment, three ponies appeared from behind a copse and started playing. A similar thing happened in 2024, too, when I went down a new path just because I felt like I should. The next thing I knew I could hear neighing, and I followed the sounds only to end up in another field I didn’t recognise.

“Lo and behold, a field full of six, maybe even eight horses with their coats all glossy in the sunshine. A few times one of them would look up and stare at me, standing and watching on the edge of their field, and sometimes they whickered towards me.

People might think I’m joining the dots which aren’t there. Maybe this is a horsey area (it is), but tell me why I ventured out of the bluebell trail to an unfamiliar path which led me here. I stopped and looked up for you in the blue sky, mumma, thanking you for the signs, the sun, the horses.” April 30th, 2024

The Real Thing

“You to Me Are Everything” was one of my mum’s favourite songs. We chose it for her funeral, and it’s one of the records I wrote about for the first edition of My Mum Loved This Song. It conjures such vivid memories for me, and my brothers and I both agree that we hear it playing much more these days now she’s gone.

One New Year’s Eve, as 2022 became 2023, I was having one of those griefy moments where you’re surrounded by people but feeling intensely lonely. The passing of time is very strange in grief, and I was thinking about being yet another year away from the last year my mum was alive. I looked up at the television—which was muted as we were playing music—and there was The Real Thing, performing on Jools Holland.

Happy new home

This is perhaps the Jill sign that struck me as the most magical. I think of it all the time, but I was especially reminded of it when I spoke to The Grief Gang founder Amber Jeffrey, and she told me about finally reading a letter her mum had written to her dad, which contained the lyrics to Diana Ross’s “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” a song she’d recently shared in one of her group circles. Her mum wanted her to read that letter that day.

Being able to buy a flat with my boyfriend was an immense privilege, but it was a position we only found ourselves in because my mum had died. Starting that chapter of my life without her, and only being able to because of her death, was extremely difficult to navigate. I was simultaneously joyful and devastated, wanting to bounce with excitement but feeling heavier than ever. Being so loved by someone who will never get to know my mum summons a sadness I will never get over.

In August, 2022, when we got the keys to our beautiful flat, all I wanted was to share it with her. About a month later, I was unpacking boxes and filling our bookcases. I got to the cookbooks, and picked up my copy of The Green Roasting Tin. As I put it on the shelf, something slipped out and fell to the floor. I looked down to see a Moonpig card with a little dog poking his head out of a bright pink house, “Katie’s new home” emblazoned across the roof.

It was a new house card from my mum and her husband, the card my heart had been physically aching for. She always used to write the year in the top-right corner of her cards, but because this was a Moonpig job the year is missing, so I’m not sure which house it was originally for. But if that wasn’t a sign she was there, sending me her love, support and well wishes for our next chapter, I don’t know what is.

“LYYTMAB,” she wrote at the bottom, our acronym (save for the typo) for “love you to the moon and back,” the expression so many of us use to mean infinite love, as taken from the children’s book Guess How Much I Love You. I’ve since had the words tattooed on my arm in her handwriting.

There have been more Jill signs over the years, but these are the ones that sit closest to my heart. There’s no right or wrong way to feel connected to the people we love, and I believe that they live on in us and the way we choose to live our lives. But I wanted to write about these moments today because I do think they are a sign of something quite magical: a symbol of our love that stretches all the way to the moon… and back.

Do you have your own signs and stories? Please share in the comments or send to me if you feel so inclined. I’d love to hear from you. As always, thank you for reading.

Born in London and now based in Bristol, Danielle is a DJ, label head and long-time NTS Radio host. Her dynamic approach to her sets, which seamlessly stitch together a broad sweep of club music, has seen her play all over the world at dance music’s foremost festivals and events, from Glastonbury and Draaimolen to DC10 in Ibiza, The White Hotel in Manchester and Left Bank in Tbilisi, where she holds a residency. Her label and party series, Soft Raw, launched in 2022, and she now hosts semi-regular parties at Strange Brew in her home city.

Over the last year and a half, Danielle’s life has shifted both dramatically and magically, as she gave birth to her son in June 2025. Three months later, September 6th marked 25 years since her mum, Tracy, passed away.

“Her absence feels heavier with the anniversary,” she wrote on Instagram. “And motherhood has connected me to the sorrow she must have felt at having to leave us behind, which has been hard to sit with. But as I reach the end of the fourth trimester, I realise I’ve embraced motherhood more easily than I expected. Even without her here to guide me, I like to believe that what she instilled in me during the years we had together continues to shape who I am.”

It was these words that prompted me to reach out to Danielle for the newsletter, and I’m so glad I did. As you’ll read in the following interview, after losing her mum when she was only nine, for a long time Danielle coped by pushing her grief and memories firmly into the background. Now, being a mum herself, she’s opening up to grief in a new way, thinking about her mum often and really leaning into the records that take her back to when she was a child.

From classic ‘90s house to Cocteau Twins to Alanis Morissette, it’s no surprise that this edition is packed with excellent music. I’m hugely grateful to Danielle for the moving conversation, I hope you enjoy reading.

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Who are you remembering today?

My mum, Tracy. She passed away from lung cancer when I was nine. She was diagnosed at 37, and died about two years later. It’s 25 years since she died now. Honestly, when that dawned on me, I was like, what? Because it seems like so, so much time but also not, when I think about everything I’ve done in the last 25 years. It’s a really weird feeling.

Grief really messes with time, doesn’t it?

It’s the same with the baby. The first few months felt like Groundhog Day. Every day felt so long. And everyone outside looking in kept saying, “Make the most of this time, it goes so fast.” And I was thinking, “It really isn’t going fast for me.” Then all of a sudden he was six months old and I thought, “Where did that time go?!” It’s that same feeling. Time feels slow, but also really quick.

Can you tell me a bit about what your mum was like?

It’s difficult because I was so young. I don’t remember much, I don’t remember her voice. I don’t have videos, but I’ve got photos. Sometimes I don’t know if I actually remember something happening or if I just think I do because I’m seeing a photo.

I think the most vivid memory I have is our last holiday in Italy. Me, my twin brother, my dad, we were all there and she was still well enough to go away. I must’ve been eight, so 1999. That’s one of the last times I remember being in her presence. After that, I don’t really remember much. When I laugh, my dad says I have the same laugh, which is quite cute, but I don’t recall hers. Or there’ll be certain things I say and he’ll be like, “Oh, she’s like Tracy.”

She was a stay-at-home mum, so when I think of the time we had with her, we were literally with her every day. She was a really good cook. She used to make everything from scratch. I’m trying to do the same, I baked for the first time yesterday! And my little boy loved what I made, so that made me feel quite nice.

From what my dad says, she was quite reserved, the kind of woman where you’d think she was shy unless you knew her. Once you did, she was chatty, forthcoming and friendly. I think I take after her a bit in that respect, but I take after my dad as well, who’s really outgoing and loud.

In terms of musical memories, what would you like to talk about?

The main thing I remember is that she loved Alanis Morissette, especially Jagged Little Pill. I remember hearing it so much. I was listening to it fairly recently in the car and I was mouthing all the words, even though it’d been a really long time since I listened to it.

I asked my dad what he could remember. He said Des’ree’s “You Gotta Be.” When I put it on YouTube, I was like, “Oh my God, of course!” I remember hearing it so often. He also said she liked Suzanne Vega, “Tom’s Diner,” but that was a bit before my time.

It’s funny, because the thing I remember more is albums that were out the year she died. And the year after, because we were away for a while. When you asked me to do this, the main thing that was coming into my head was the songs I listened to around the time she died. There was Who Is Jill Scott?: Words and Sounds Vol. 1, any song from that album is amazing, but especially “Do You Remember,” “Watching Me,” “Slowly Surely” and “It’s Love.” And Musiq Soulchild’s album Aijuswanaseing really takes me back to that time.

There’s a couple of songs on Everybody Got Their Something, the album by Nikka Costa, which I came across recently with my brother when I was in London. We were clearing my nan’s flat after she passed away, and we were in the car with Spotify on. This song played and I recognised it immediately. After she died, my dad knew some people in LA and he took us there for a few months over the summer holidays. We had that album on repeat, and another one by Michael Franti.

If either of those albums come on, I return to being ten, but not in a horrible way. I welled up listening to a couple of the Nikka Costa songs, as they’re quite sad, but with the Michael Franti one, I remember driving through Palm Springs or something and there were these huge wind turbines and the weather was incredible. I remember it being a really positive thing because it was like, well, it’s obviously so shit what happened, but I was in LA with my dad, having this amazing fun time, you know? There was a positive side to that time, too. My relationship with my dad is so amazing. He’s the main musical influence in my life, and I think that’s because he brought me up and I sort of followed in his footsteps.

It’s interesting how music works like muscle memory. You know, even if you don’t have visual memories of listening to Jagged Little Pill with your mum, our brains remember that music was in our lives.

It’s definitely that, because you can feel something but you can’t necessarily explain it. Sometimes it might make you cry, or things will make you smile. It’s not a specific moment, more a feeling.

What was your music setup like at home?

My dad makes music. He’s quite a musical person, he’s been in bands and plays the drums. He had a studio in our basement and I was always down there. He’s got recordings of songs that he made with me, which is quite funny. Upstairs, if I was listening with my mum, we had one of those portable CD players and then we listened to the radio. My dad was sometimes on pirate radio, so we’d have that on and listen out for him, waiting for him to speak, so that would be quite cool.

When you hear Alanis Morissette, or another of the records you’ve mentioned, how does it make you feel?

I think it’s changed now. When I was younger, I wouldn’t have wanted to listen, it would have made me really upset. I think my way of coping with her passing was just to move on, get on with it. We didn’t know she was ill, basically until it got to the point that she was in the hospice. As an adult, when I see a nine-year-old, I see why they didn’t tell us. But I obviously didn’t feel like that at the time, I felt like I was being left out. I’d just be really confused and a bit annoyed because things would be going on and I’d be like, “What’s happening? Why are we going here? Why is she not at home?” We didn’t know what was going on. So, over the years, I just didn’t want to hear that music, because it took me back to that time when I was so confused. It was too much.

Now I’m older, it’s completely different. I actually enjoy listening to that music, because I can understand why she liked it. If I hear those songs, like the ones my dad mentioned, it doesn’t make me feel the same way it used to. I can appreciate the music. It does take me back, but it’s not necessarily as sad.

Back then, I just wanted to move on. And it’s sad to say that, because you don’t want to forget people when they pass, that’s the opposite of what you want to do. But I think having that happen to me at such a young age, that was how I got through it, even if it wasn’t a conscious decision.

Of course, you don’t have the tools or the life experience to be able to make those decisions for yourself.

Not at all. And now it’s been 25 years, I know the only way it’s easier is because of time. Time does heal. And obviously when people tell you that when you’re in the middle of it, you’re like, yeah, sure, but it’s not until you have time yourself that you realise it’s true. I don’t know too many people that have been through that as a kid, but I do know people who have had their parents pass away more recently, and I do find myself telling them that. Even if I know it might not be helpful in the moment, I do know that if you can hear it, it is true.

I’ve had the same thing, where I’ll say, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I promise you this is going to get easier.”

Do you think experiencing loss at such a young age has impacted the way you engage with music?

It’s hard to say. In my head, the reason I’ve gone into music is more because of my dad’s influence. But then I guess because she died, I spent more time with him, which maybe meant that I naturally gravitated in that direction. Most of the life I remember is after she died. I think that’s a coping mechanism, like amnesia, because lots of people remember things from when they were younger than nine, but I remember very little.

Do you have records or artists you can always turn to if you’re having a hard day?

Yeah, mostly stuff that would have played around the house growing up. I was looking after a lot of my dad’s records for a long time, so stuff like Cocteau Twins, Tom Tom Club, Marvin Gaye, Grace Jones. That sort of era. A lot of these bands made a lot of records and I’ve got them all, like The The and Can, plus The Isley Brothers.

I’m sensing the vibe.

Yeah! A lot of the time I’m obviously listening to dance music because that’s what I play, but especially since I’ve had the baby, I’ve got this great home listening collection. It makes me feel comforted, knowing this music was out in a time when my parents were my age, I quite like that thought.

How do you like to honour your mum today, musically or otherwise?

Since having a baby, she’s on my mind a lot, because now I can understand what she was going through. Well, she had twins! I always used to say I wanted twins, because I love being a twin and once you get older it’s the best thing ever, but I’m very glad I didn’t now that I’ve had one baby. But yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about how amazing a mum she was. Even simple things like cooking from scratch, every meal, every day. She doted on us, there was nothing we ever wanted for, or missed out on, and I think of her so much because I want to give that to my son. I need to do the best I can, and just hope that it’s within me.

I think a lot about my future and motherhood, and trying to navigate that without my own mum. It must be so difficult.

I had thought beforehand that it would be difficult, but because my coping mechanism was always just to move on, I really tried not to think about it. And then once I became pregnant and had the baby, and he was there in front of me, it was like, okay, hang on. And then I couldn’t get her out of my head. Not only was I reflecting on everything she went through and how much I appreciate her for it, but I’m also thinking, how am I going to do this without her help? But I’ve managed it so far, so she’s helping me from afar.

Do you think it’s fair to say then that motherhood has opened up your grief?

Yeah, and I don’t think I would have liked to have been a mum sooner. I don’t think I would have coped as well. I mean, I’m getting emotional right now, but because it’s been longer, I am that much stronger, and I just know that I’ve got this.

If I’d done this five years ago, when I was her age, I think I wouldn’t have been able to cope as well. I think the fact it’s been such a long time means that as much as it’s difficult and I wish she was here, I also don’t know life with her. I know her as the mum I had, but I don’t know her, if that makes sense? Maybe she’d be on my case all the time, and bloody annoying!

You know, lots of my friends love their mums, but lots of them also have this really complicated relationship. Mothers and daughters can have that, and I never had that. So, in my head, I’ve got this idealistic idea of this perfect person who looked after me, and it would probably be the same now, but maybe not. Her and her mum didn’t get on very well. It’s a hard, weird thing to think about.

But don’t get me wrong, if she was around, as that 39-year-old woman she was when she passed, I’m thinking, God, that would be useful!

If you could give advice to someone early in their grief, what would you say?

It’s hard because I experienced grief at such a young age, and I think it’s so different to lose a parent when you’re an adult. I think I would say that there’s no right or wrong way to grieve. Whatever helps you get through the day is right. If that’s trying not to think about it to advance with your day, that’s fine. If it’s staring at a photo all evening, that’s fine too.

My mum was buried in the plot next to my grandad, who died before I was born, and my nan would always make us go to the grave. I hated it. I didn’t want to be there, it was too hard to think about. So I hate the idea of feeling like you have to mourn, or you have to show that you’re sad that this person’s gone. Of course you’re sad. I don’t think anyone should feel forced to grieve in a certain way. Just do what feels right for you.

Is there anything else you want to add?

That house music was such a big thing for me. We had a lot of house records playing from when I was really young. My dad had a lot of dance music, which is why I started working in a record shop when I was 18 and why I first started DJing. A lot of the early ‘90s stuff, Masters at Work, Romanthony, Soul II Soul, Nuyorican Soul, anything from 1990 through 1999 is a real comfort for me.

Thank you so much for sharing.

This was really nice, especially talking to someone who understands. I never talk about this. My whole life I just didn’t speak about it. And when people ask, they often don’t really understand, they just look at you with pity. And sometimes I think, “I don’t really need to talk to you about this, because I don’t need to explain something that you’re not going to get.” There’s no point, and it’s not going to benefit me in any way. So it’s nice speaking to someone who does get it, thank you.

These words speak to one of the most important truths I’ve learned in grief: that among deep, wrenching sadness, there can also be light, laughter and fun. I first read them in the summer of 2021, when Alex Mammadyarov shared them to her Instagram. In the years since, her work, and the online community she has built, has been a steady source of comfort for me. Her gently presented perspectives and reflections on grief remind us to acknowledge our small wins, listen to our bodies and treat ourselves with the same care and sensitivity we so readily offer to those around us.

Alex is a writer and therapist who specialises in supporting people navigating grief, trauma, anxiety, life transitions and relationship challenges. Her therapy practice is grounded in compassion, empowerment and hope—themes that shine through in all of her online work, too.

This month, Alex has released her new book, Growing Through Grief: A Compassionate Guide to Finding Meaning and Purpose After Life-Altering Loss. As we discuss in the interview below, her path to this work was shaped by profound loss, as she lost both of her parents to cancer by the time she was 14. “When you’ve known really hard times,” she told me, “one of the things that can feel fulfilling is helping other people through hard times.”

Musical memories have a way of opening doors we didn’t realise had been closed, helping us feel and think in ways we haven’t for a long time. This conversation was one of those moments—and it’s exactly why My Mum Loved This Song exists. I’m so grateful to Alex for sharing her stories with me. Thank you so much for reading.

If you’d like to make a one-off payment in honour of Alex’s parents instead, you can do so here:

One-off payment

Can you tell us a bit about yourself and what you do?

I’m a licensed therapist and a clinical supervisor, which means I supervise other therapists. I’m also a writer and author. My first book, Growing Through Grief, came out this week.

Congratulations! How do you think your career path is connected to things you’ve experienced in life?

Therapy in general, and also having a grief focus, is definitely connected to my own experiences. I think so many of us enter this profession because we’ve had certain profound emotional experiences that we’ve had to journey through. When you’ve known really hard times, one of the things that can feel fulfilling is helping other people through hard times.

Who will you be remembering today?

I’m wondering if I can remember two people—both of my parents, my mum, Karen, and my dad, Billy.

Could you tell me a bit about them?

What’s coming up for me first is that my parents were soulmates. They really loved each other and loved their family, and that’s something I’ve really benefited from, and still benefit from today.

My relationship with my dad was very close. I almost feel like I played favourites as a kid, and he happened to be my favourite for maybe the first eight years of my life, which was really fortunate because he died when I was eight.

He was just fun, and I wanted to be around him. Some of my most frequent memories are Saturday errands with him. You know, going to the grocery store, the bank, the dry cleaners and it being so fun. He also owned a video store, so going to work with him was really fun. I got to really focus on that relationship as a kid. And then after he died, my mum and I really became best friends. She died when I was 14.

When I picture our relationship, I think about the subtle, daily moments of her support and dedication to whatever I was interested in. I’m thinking about being in the car with her, her taking me to some obscure store to pick up sheet music in the right key for me to sing in a performance I was doing. And then I’m thinking about her taking me to a museum to see a certain exhibit when I had this idea that I wanted to become a fashion designer. I can’t remember the name of the museum, but it was some kind of couture exhibition in Boston.

It sounds like she really helped you to discover more about the things you were feeling passionate about. When it comes to music, what do you associate with your memories of them?

There’s a lot. I was thinking about it, and realising what a musical family I come from and how important music is to us. There’s certain artists that come to mind for my dad, and others for my mum. I’ve got an experience for each related to music I’d like to share.

Lovely, thank you. So, which are the artists for your dad?

It would have to be Frank Sinatra, Jerry Vale, Dean Martin. He was an older dad, he was born in the 1940s and he was just from a different era. And I don’t mean that in a bad way, just that it reflected in some of his habits. His car was always pristine. He always left the house well dressed and put together. The music that was probably popular when he was a kid in the 1950s, some of the earliest music he ever heard, I can hear that playing in my childhood home.

And if you picture the setup of hearing music at home as a child, where are you together and listening?

In the living room, on a CD player and emanating throughout the house. Or in the car.

What’s the experience that sticks out for you?

What’s interesting is that even though I remember those artists playing in the house, I don’t think I could pinpoint a specific shared moment from when I was a kid. I actually think our first shared moment with music happened just a few years ago, after he was already gone.

It wasn’t something I was aware of, but my sister reminded me one year on his birthday, when he’d been gone for so many years. She sent me a text and said, “I don’t know if you remember that dad wanted you to listen to this song.” The song is “You’ll Never Walk Alone” from the film version of the musical Carousel. I actually write about this in my book, because right around the same time I became aware of his love for the song, I was with friends at a bar in New York City watching a Liverpool game on TV. I had no idea it was the team’s anthem—the whole bar was singing this song and I’d only just come to even discover it.

What’s important is that he loved that song. He had a fear that I wouldn’t remember him, and I think that came from losing his own mother as a little boy. I don’t know what memories he had of her, it’s not something we talked about or that I was really aware of as a kid. But he wanted me to know that song and to not feel alone whenever I heard it. That was actually what made me realise that he was very deeply moved by music in a way I didn’t necessarily understand.

How does it feel when you hear that song now?

When my sister told me, and around the time I heard it at the bar, I saved it on my Spotify library. Sometimes it’ll come up on shuffle and I find myself needing to skip it. Sometimes that even surprises me, because he’s been gone for at least 20 years. That’s the surprising thing about grief—and I’m somebody who clearly engages with my own grief, and who loves doing grief work with other people. I don’t think of myself as being avoidant, and I don’t think we have to see it as an unhealthy avoidance. Sometimes there’s moments where you’re ready to go to that place, and other times you’re not.

When you think about music and your mum, what are the records or artists that come to mind?

I think about being in the car with her with the radio on, listening to ‘60s soul, R&B, Motown. She loved singers with incredible voices, like Patti LaBelle, Whitney Houston and Barbra Streisand. She came from a very musical family. Her mother and her mother’s siblings grew up playing music together. My grandmother would always sing out and play the piano and wasn’t shy about it. My mum inherited a beautiful, gentle voice but was so shy. I think she performed as a teenager but the shyness took over and didn’t allow her to go further with it. She was very supportive of my sister and I going on to perform as kids.

Something very profound happened during her illness. She had breast cancer for several years, and at one point she went to a fundraising event with her sister. There was a big band playing “Last Dance” by Donna Summer. (She was very into disco, it was part of her time.) So, someone in the band saw she was singing all the words and pulled her on stage, and for the first time she sang with a full band behind her. After that, she said she would die happy now.

That is so amazing, and so brave of her.

I know, I wish I could be in her mind in that moment, if she had that split second of hesitation. But I think when people are sick, it can make them braver. In some ways, I think she knew. She was very much in awareness. As much as she was always fighting to be here, she was somebody who very gracefully accepted the end of her life. And so I think she thought, “This is it. Maybe this is my chance to do this.”

When you picture your mum listening to music, is it in the car?

Definitely. Probably because it was the most consistent, and a space where she felt comfortable to sing. I’m so glad she sang around us and I got to hear what that sounded like.

Do you think losing your parents so young has changed how you experience music?

It’s hard to know what’s innate, or a byproduct of other parts of life, and what comes from loss. But even if I had the foundations to be a music lover because of my family, I do think losing them propelled me to use it as a safe haven.

Are there particular records or artists you can always turn to in hard times?

I’m not so much a person that listens to sad music when I’m sad, I’m more toward wanting it to take me somewhere else or really just have fun, and I think in a way that is helping with grief. I feel closer to my parents in those moments, you know if a Donna Summer song comes on in the car and I’m singing along to it.

I have a big disco playlist that’s hours and hours long. I love a lot of ‘70s music, classic rock, funk, really all across the map. It’s hard for me to pinpoint certain artists.

How do you like to honour their memory today?

Musically, it’s in the car, putting on music they loved or honouring them by honouring my own happiness and putting on something that makes me feel good.

I also honour them on a daily basis in ways I carry them with me. This ring was my dad’s, it has his initials, and I often wear a gold chain of his. I have my mum’s engagement ring. And I think talking about them is the biggest honouring — it keeps them here.

What is a tool or a piece of advice you’d give to someone early on in their grief journey?

I think because we’ve been talking about music I’m gravitating there, because I’m even noticing, through this conversation, it feels so tender. Music is so tender, and I think for that reason, people need to be really gentle with themselves when they’re in early grief about what they’re able to listen to and engage with. It can be scary for people to find that they’re not feeling themselves, and one thing that can make you feel that way is not being able to listen to the music you’d usually listen to.

So let’s say a song comes on the radio that you know your mum loved, it’s okay at first if you need to turn it off. Maybe the time after that, you let it play for 30 seconds. Then you’ve listened to half of it, and then, one day, you’ll be able to go to that place and allow yourself to be there, and allow yourself to feel all of the emotions. It’s really important to do that and be able to have that release. But my biggest piece of advice would be to take your time.

Thank you. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?

When you were asking me about picturing being with each of them, the memory that comes to mind is my mum being so supportive of whatever I was interested in. That extended not just to my performing, but even the music I was into, which was so far off from what she liked.

I went through a phase of being into a lot of grunge and harder rock, and I remember wanting to see Jack White’s band, The Dead Weather, at the House of Blues in Boston. A couple of my friends wanted to go, but we were kind of young, so she took us and brought her friends.

I always think back to that show and start laughing. It was kind of dark and grungy, with crazy strobe lights. She was a disco girl, so it was not for her, but she went anyway. That’s love. She was just so supportive. I’m going to think about this later, it’s really coming up for me.

Alex’s book, Growing Through Grief: A Compassionate Guide to Finding Meaning and Purpose After Life-Altering Loss, is available now.

There’s no feeling quite like it. Being surrounded by pals, letting the music move you both physically and emotionally. The dance floor is a great place for thinking. It’s also a great place for not thinking and losing yourself in the heady thrill of it all. Today’s guest, Amy Van-Baaren, knows this truth like I do.

Amy grew up in a small coal-mining town in the South Wales valleys, to Welsh-Dutch parents who soundtracked the house with their favourite ‘60s records. They used to go to Butlins for ‘60s weekenders, and then later, in a kind of UK clubbers rite of passage, Amy would also go to Butlins, this time for big, silly rave weekends.

A career in dance music began in Cardiff, where she threw parties in an old bank vault. In 2012, after one of the reviewers came down to cover one of her events, she joined Resident Advisor as an intern. In the years since, she’s worked her way up to become the company’s first Chief Impact and Culture Officer.

When we talked about her long, impressive path at RA, she said she’d recently done some dance floor thinking and came up with a cheeky litmus test: The day you spend too much time in the green room and not enough on the dance floor, that’s when you need to step back and ask: What am I actually doing?! (Are you also in dance music? Take note.)

If you’re lucky enough to know Amy in any capacity, you’ll know she’s a joy to be around. She has a zest for life and seemingly endless capacity to help others, whether through her philanthropic work or through being a brilliantly supportive friend and colleague. Not to mention she’s an excellent dance floor companion. When we spoke back in August, what shone through most was her commitment to celebrating life and embracing joy. She lives life in full, bright colour in honour of her late mum, Sheryl, “to do her proud in every way, shape and form.”

I left the conversation feeling steadier and inspired to remind myself of these things more often. From the dance floor moments I relish, to stressful days at work, to the painful days when grief feels too heavy to carry, what’s important is to treat life as a privilege and a celebration. And listen to as much Sade as we damn well please.

I hope you enjoy reading. If this conversation resonates, please consider sharing it with someone who might appreciate it. And, if you’re able, a paid subscription would mean a lot—I’ll be donating 50 percent of proceeds to Cancer Research UK.

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Who will you be remembering today? What’s their name, and can you tell me a bit about them?

We’re going to talk about my mother, Sheryl Van-Baaren. She was from South Wales. She was funny. She was loud—you would always know she was in the room. She loved dancing and singing. She was very kind and happy, happy-go-lucky.

What was your relationship like?

Really good, actually. There were points, you know, when you’re in your teens and it’s a bit fractious. But it wasn’t a defining part of our relationship. She was always extremely encouraging about me travelling and going away. She loved the idea of me spreading my wings. It was great, actually. We’d still argue, though. We all used to sit around the kitchen table for mealtimes. I love those memories of coming home from school and having meals together, they’re some of my fondest. But also, some of the craziest arguments used to happen at that kitchen table! But I was blessed.

We used to go to our little caravan a lot. They always managed to make so many memories with us, even if we didn’t have loads of money. I’m not saying we didn’t have any money, but we’d go on holidays to France on a bus and stuff, or spontaneous Teletext Holidays. They always really tried to give us a really good upbringing and broad experiences, even if we didn’t have a shit tonne of money.

There’s a bit of a theme with some of these chats, which is caravan holidays.

I loved those holidays. I think that’s all you really need, somewhere to create those memories together. It doesn’t have to be expensive holidays or anything like that. It’s just making the effort to take you somewhere out of your comfort zones.

Yeah, one of the things I said to Danny Wright was about when I was a teenager, I went through a phase of thinking, “This bit of the world is so boring. I’ve got no signal. This sucks.” And now I look back at it, it’s my most precious place. I’m so grateful that I had all those times. But we all go through that phase.

I think you have to, it’s part of growing up. I read something recently that said something like, “The only person a child can hate, or have a fractious relationship with, is their parents, because it’s that unconditional love.” There’s no one else in the world who you’d be able to rebel against. But to be honest, I wasn’t very rebellious anyway! I was head girl in school, I always went to hockey club. I was easy going, not a bad teenager. She had it lucky!

Is there a particular song, artist or album that really reminds you of her?

Well, I found this quite hard. Basically, everything from the ‘60s reminds me of my mother, because they used to go to Butlins on ‘60s weekenders. And then when I was going to Butlins for raves, the idea of them also going there for music was funny.

And then this year, my brother—who’s five years older than me—and I were at Glastonbury and we went to see The Searchers. I didn’t realise I knew who they were, but my brother was like, “Do you remember The Searchers? Our parents always used to play them.” So we went to the tent, I think it was the Acoustic Stage. My brother hadn’t been to Glastonbury for years because he’s got kids now, so that was really nice. We went off on our own when everyone else went to see Busta Rhymes.

It was just amazing. We were the youngest people by about 30 years. The Searchers came on—They’re like 80 years old, at least, and it was their last-ever performance. We didn’t see him but apparently Paul McCartney was stood at the side. They started playing “Needles and Pins” and all those lovely songs, and we were belting them out. I’d forgotten how much I knew all the words. It was really emotional. And then a song came on, which isn’t even by The Searchers, but they were covering “Runaway” by Del Shannon. I looked around at my brother, and he’d started bawling, and I was bawling as well. And we were so caught up in it.

So, I would say, apart from The Supremes and the general moods and themes of the ‘60s, for some reason that Del Shannon song really caught me off guard. I also remember my parents used to do this jive. They were always jiving in the house. Music was such a lovely part of growing up. It was always around.

If you picture the setup of music in your house, and if you picture your mum enjoying music, what comes to mind?

We had this black Hi-Fi system that we used to use. When I think about it, I see us in the kitchen. Dancing in the kitchen to ‘60s music and watching them go off to their little weekenders with their pals at Butlins. It’s always the kitchen, which is nice, because that’s the heart of the house really, isn’t it? We had the record player, too. They had loads of records.

How does listening to this music make you feel?

I mean, you can have songs that catch you off guard and you’re just not ready, you’re not in the mood. It’s like, “I’m not in the mood for grief today, thanks!”

Exactly.

The Searchers was a really lovely experience with my brother. I think I’d potentially parked a lot of those songs. It’s not like it’s music I listen to regularly, and it just took me straight back. I’ve set up a little playlist now, and I’ve been revisiting it more than I used to, because I was just like, okay, they don’t have to all be sad, even if some of them are.

I remember going to Hong Kong with my brother and my dad, because my parents used to live there, and the funeral song we had, which was a song by The Supremes, was playing in the shop. We were all a bit shellshocked. I can’t listen to the funeral song. Sometimes I’m a bit gutted, because it’s a lovely tune, and now it’s forever tarnished. It depends, doesn’t it? Sometimes you want to listen and be reminded, and other times you’re not feeling it.

Sometimes it’s just not the day for it. Another thing that’s come up quite a lot in these interviews is the fact that we all hear that music more now. It pops up more.

Yeah, which is nice, isn’t it? For some reason, we can’t figure out why, but I’ve got this thing where I think my mother’s a robin. So whenever I see robins it’s like she’s come to see me. Obviously, she’s not a robin, and last year my little nieces were like, “It’s really rubbish when your gran’s a robin.” And I thought, “That is true. It’s shit.” It was hard because they were asking if she really is a robin, and I was explaining that, no, but when we see robins it just reminds us, and it’s birdsong. Birdsong is that connection for me. It was funny though, my poor niece Harper was like, “It really is rubbish auntie, isn’t it?”

I think if you see things, or if those songs come back to you, it is nice. That’s a connection that you don’t want to break. And sometimes they appear when you least expect it. But I do think there’s something… There’s another life somewhere, isn’t there?

I definitely think it’s a bit of magic sometimes. Do you think your relationship with music has changed since she passed away?

I don’t know if it’s changed. I think she had a pivotal role in my relationship with music in my life. I mean, she’s been gone 20 years now, so I wonder sometimes if she was responsible for the way that my life ended up, living through music, or the reason I connected with songs on that visceral level was because of that connection to her. It only strengthened, to be honest, my career path and everything went that way. It didn’t change negatively, that’s for sure. And I think I enjoy music the way I do because of the relationship I had with it at home. It sparks joy for me. Since her passing, I would say it’s enhanced, perhaps, but it’s hard to tell what came first.

That makes sense. And are there any artists or records that have helped you to navigate tough times, or music that you can always listen to if you want to feel better?

Well, I don’t even know if it was through grief, but Sade and Adele—don’t tell the dance music crew! But honestly, Adele, for some reason. You know what? I love sad, soppy songs. So maybe there is something that’s supported me through grief. I get quite a lot of solace from music like that. You know when you’re feeling hungover and you just want to listen to sad songs? I remember an old flatmate once was like, “Can you please stop listening to Sade?” I was going through a breakup, and I didn’t even think I was listening to it that much. He was like, “Please, for the love of God, just not Sade.”

For someone to ask for no more Sade, you must have been hammering it.

Sometimes I wonder if I listen to Adele too much, but I’m allowed. We’re all allowed.

We’re all allowed to listen to whatever we like. If your mum was with us today, are there any artists or tunes or even musical moments where you’ve thought, “Oh, she would have loved this?”

All the festivals, I think she would have been amazing at Glastonbury. And I would love to go and rave with her. I would like to just celebrate life, to be honest, in a messy field with lots of people. She would have loved talking to everybody. Maybe not the camping part, but I reckon she would have had a great time at festivals around the world. Just celebrating it all really, she loved to dance. She loved a good party. Like mother, like daughter. That bit has definitely come through. But as for specific artists, I don’t know, she just loved watching people have a good time.

And how do you like to honour her memory today, musically or otherwise?

We’ve got a bench. You’ve got a bench, too. It took us a long time to get that bloody bench! I’ve got her chair in my lounge, I knew I wanted to have that when I got my own place. I’ve got her chair, and then her picture there. So, when I have a little moment, I’ll just sit in it and like… God, yeah, there’s not a moment that goes by where you don’t wish they could see where you are, what you’ve done or just have that quick connection with them. And the robins, I love seeing the robins.

Sometimes I just can’t believe it’s been 20 years. There’s a point where you think you can’t even last a week, and then suddenly you’re 20 years deep, and you’re like, bloody hell. And I just think, if we can get through that, we can get through anything can’t we? We’re all way more resilient than we think we are. I think that supports me, then when I’m getting stressed with work or personal life, I just think to myself, “You’ve been through a lot worse. We’re going to be fine.”

I just want to live my life and make her proud, and not be afraid to feel the joy and be excited. There’s a really nice poem I read recently:

I want to live to celebrate life because of the life she couldn’t have, but also to do her proud in every way, shape and form. Be nice, be kind. And just enjoy yourself. Enjoy everything. Just be happy. And that’s easy to say, but I think it’s so important. Don’t be afraid to dance, and be silly and just do all the good things. Because you never really know, do you, when the shit times are gonna come? You’ve only got one life, you might as well celebrate it.

And also, I think connecting with people who’ve lost parents has become easier now I’m older. Grief isn’t linear, is it? It comes and knocks you off your socks at the most inopportune times, like when you’re sat on a bus or when you’re doing something and it can just sideswipe you. Sometimes it’s a fleeting moment and it does make you cry. I still have moments. Actually I was listening to “Runaway” earlier, and I had a little cry.

But that’s good. We’re alive because we feel all these emotions. I don’t think grief ever goes away, and I think you’ve just got to feel it. You’ve got to feel the highs, and you’ve got to feel the lows. It’s tough, isn’t it? But ultimately, you love them so much that you’re so sad they’ve gone.

And that’s why it never goes away, because you never stop loving someone just because they’re not there.

Yeah, and that’s also good, because it means I loved really fucking hard. And, you know, obviously I wish that things could be different, but I know for a fact she wouldn’t want me moping around. And that doesn’t mean you can’t grieve. Grief needs to be processed, for sure, but my testament to her is to celebrate.

That was a lovely answer, thank you. Something I found difficult for a long time was understanding that you can be the most sad you’ve ever been, and maybe ever will be, but also be happy and enjoying things at the same time.

It’s not mutually exclusive, is it? It’s not a shame on you if you’re like, “Oh my God, I didn’t love her enough because I’m giggling at a stupid joke.” It’s fine. I think, also, nobody talks about death. What’s nice about when you meet people who’ve lost a parent is that they know what’s going on. And they can go to deep conversations very quickly, often much faster than other people. I found that quite reassuring, because they’ll be like, let’s go straight into it. I think people are way more open then, too.

Definitely. I remember having this realisation when my mum died. It sounds stupid, but I was thinking about my friends who had lost parents previously, and I remember reflecting and thinking, “Fuck, I had no idea.” It’s so much more profound and devastating than you could ever realise until you’re in it.

You’re joining the shittest club in the world. But people get it. I think that’s one of the worst things, when you have to just say to a pal, “This is the shittest of the shit. We’re all in the shit club, and I’m sorry you’re in it.” I don’t know why, as a culture, we don’t talk about death more. It’s coming to all of us. And you know, best case scenario is that we all live happy, long lives till we’re in our 90s. But death happens to us all, yet people don’t want to talk about it or think about it. But it’s also obvious that it will affect us all, so why isn’t there more structure or tools or support networks for even having these discussions with loved ones?

If you were to give somebody who’s earlier on in their grief journey a piece of advice, what would you say?

When I speak to people who’ve lost their parents, it’s usually like, “I’m still here.” That’s quite powerful, because at some point you don’t think you’re going to be and then suddenly, we’re years later. So, my advice is, even though I hate the bit when it’s like, “You’ll get through it.” It feels so useless. But knowing that people are still there. You’ll get there, but it’ll be a journey. The joy thing, too. Don’t be ashamed to feel joy. And if it’s a week after and you’re laughing about something stupid, that is okay. Don’t punish yourself for being happy.

It’s a small milestone, I know, but when I was preparing to publish part ten with Olivia Potts, I was thinking about how quickly things disappear down our timelines—and out of our heads—when we’re being bombarded with stuff all the time.

So, I’ve decided to do semi-regular recaps to help new readers explore the series and invite you to dig into more of the interviews. If you’re new here, this edition spotlights all the people and music I’ve featured so far, in one place.

After wanting to do something like this for a while, I’m happy to say it’s doing my heart and mind a great deal of good to have these conversations and put them out in the world.

If you’re here because you’re grieving, I hope it’s doing the same for you. I’d love to hear from you, so please let me know how you’re finding My Mum Loved This Song in the comments or send me an email. Is there something I could be doing differently? Something you want more (or less) of? Guests you’d like to see?

As you probably know, I donate 50 percent of income from paid subscriptions to Cancer Research UK—unless a guest chooses a different cause. To date, thanks to your support, I’ve been able to donate £323.94 across Cancer Research UK, Anthony Nolan and Trekstock. The more paying subscribers, the more I can donate. You know what to do!

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My final question, which I ask in each newsletter, is: Do you know someone who might find comfort in reading this? Grief can be so heavy and extremely lonely, and my hope is that these newsletters will be able to help people, even if just for a moment, as they move through their loss.

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Thank you so much for reading. You’ll find snapshots of the series so far, links to read the full interviews, and of course the My Mum Loved This Song playlist below. Signing off with the opening lines from Donna Ashworth’s Listen For Me.

001: My introduction

The Real Thing – “You to Me Are Everything” (Pye Records, 1976)

“I wouldn’t call myself a particularly spiritual person, but I choose to believe that sometimes our mum sends us signs–and sometimes that’s The Real Thing.”

After percolating the idea of My Mum Love This Song, I wanted to start by contextualising the series with some of my own story. I wrote about how an unexpected book led me to visit the cemetery where my grandparents are buried, and how that quiet, reflective time on a crisp January day brought me closer to launching this newsletter.

Read the piece

002: The Grief Gang founder Amber Jeffrey

Diana Ross – “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” (Motown Records, 1970)

“It really pulls me to my mum. I love connecting love songs to grief. Some of history’s greatest love songs might be for romantic love, but they’re so applicable to platonic love and family love as well.”

What an honour to have Amber as My Mum Loved This Song’s first guest. The Grief Gang is one of the first online grief communities that I came across when my mum died, and it’s certainly one of the first things I’d recommend to anyone grieving. We had a conversation that painted a beautiful picture of Amber’s mum, Sue, and how important community was to her.

Read the interview

003: Danny Wright, music journalist

The Kinks – “Days” (Pye Records, 1968)

“I went to a gig and it lifted me up so much. I didn’t feel guilty because I knew he would have told me to go. If he could have spoken to me, he would have said, ‘Just go, feel better and do the thing you love.’”

Danny was one of the first people I knew I wanted to speak to for this project, after he wrote beautifully about how going to live shows helps him in his grief. I loved hearing about his memories of his dad, and how they went together to see The Kinks in 1994—Danny’s first-ever gig.

Read the interview

004: Meghan Riordan Jarvis, trauma therapist and author

Pink Floyd – The Wall (Harvest, 1979)

“My mother became obsessed with Pink Floyd. She was, you know, sturdy shoes, sweater, if you think of a little librarian-type. Someone you’d assume didn’t swear and probably went to church daily. She fit right into that lane, until Pink Floyd. When my parents built their house, they built speakers into every room so she could listen to them. So many times I would drive up to her house, and you could feel the vibrations in the driveway from the music.”

This was the first conversation I had for My Mum Loved This Song, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to help me overcome the daunting prospect of getting started. Meghan has a vast well of knowledge about how grief can affect our physical bodies—knowledge that has helped me so much. Here, we spoke about her mum, Mary, and her surprising love for Pink Floyd’s The Wall.

Read the interview

005: Writer and musician Ammar Kalia

Stevie Wonder – “Golden Lady” (Tamla, 1973)

“The one song’s probably ‘Golden Lady,’ which I got tattooed on my arm for her after she died. She liked how it climbs and climbs. It’s got such a good build and shape to it. It’s always reminded me of her. Every time it comes on, I think, ‘She’s the golden lady.’”

I loved this conversation with Ammar, the Guardian’s global music critic and author of A Person is a Prayer, an intergenerational exploration of family, grief and identity. We talked about his mum, Nutan, her love for Stevie Wonder and how giving yourself grace is a crucial part of grieving.

Read the interview

006: Pip Roberts, wellness practitioner and mentor

Phil Collins - “Sussudio” (Virgin Records, 1985)

“There was a time when Phil Collins remixes kept being played in clubs. When I was quite emotional in those situations, they would hit a lot harder. Whereas now, if I’m in B&Q and it comes on, it’s like, ‘Oh, she’s here with me.’ And it feels a lot sweeter. It feels like a little hello sometimes.”

A conversation that tapped into my favourite thing—dancing! (Probably makes sense, given Pip and I met at a festival in 2019.) In the sixth edition, Pip spoke about her mum, Sue, and dug into how movement and dancing can help us move through our grief.

Read the interview

007: Goodness Gracious Grief founder Nafeesa Arshad

Metronomy – “The Look” (Because Music, 2011)

“I can just imagine my sister playing it. I connect to Metronomy through her and because of her. That also takes me back to times I went to see them live. When you go to see artists that you’ve connected with because of your loved one, you will forever be reminded of them.”

This was another interview with a shared appreciation for festivals and dancing, in which I was honoured to learn about Nafeesa’s late sister, Saima, and all their musical memories together. From listening to Rinse FM in the car, going to see Tyler, The Creator together and then, years later, remembering her sister during LCD Soundsystem at Glastonbury.

Read the interview

008: Rosie Ama, DJ

Fleet Foxes – Fleet Foxes (Bella Union, 2008)

“We met somewhere in Greece, then drove down the coast together. Fleet Foxes was on the whole time. It’s so strange, because now I think about it, I can envisage all of the roads. I’ve never been back, but I can see the winding roads, the bright blue sky. It’s such a special album, and a special memory.”

If my hazy memory serves, Rosie and I first spoke about grief as the sun was rising over one of my favourite dance floors in the world—Barbarella’s in Croatia. I’m very grateful that exchange led to Rosie being part of My Mum Loved This Song. It was a rich conversation in which she shared how a life in music and writing has helped her find the tools to help her in grief.

Read the interview

009: Jayda G, DJ, producer and environmentalist

Al Jarreau – “Your Song” (Reprise Records, 1993)

“I loved my dad very much. I still love him, because I really believe grief is an ongoing thing, and it’s just learning a different relationship with that person. He was instrumental in both of my loves in life, which is nature and music.”

My grief journey and Jayda G’s music are completely intertwined, so it’s a huge honour to have been able to publish this interview. We spoke about finding signs of our people in music and the outdoors, and how motherhood has opened a new, powerful connection to Jayda’s own childhood memories.

Read the interview

010: Olivia Potts, writer and chef

Kirsty MacColl – “Days” (Virgin Records, 1989)

“It’s about constantly bringing her up and refusing to let her become some stayed memory. She has to be a real, coloured-in part of my life, and I hope, probably to a slightly lesser extent, my children’s lives—because that’s my legacy, in the way that I’m her legacy.”

As I published the tenth edition of My Mum Loved This Song, I felt full of gratitude to be able to have these conversations with people whose work has helped me so much in my own grief journey. Olivia Potts is one of those people, the author of A Half Baked Idea. I was so moved by how Olivia spoke about motherhood and keeping her late mum present in her children’s lives. This was also the second iteration of “Days” to appear in the series—“I won’t forget a single day, believe me.”

Read the interview

This is My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today’s newsletter will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so please consider a paid subscription for £4 per month.

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“To me it is [Chanel] Chance mixed with the Clarins facewash she used and the Silk Cut cigarettes she smoked.”

Do you remember what your person smelled like? I saw myself a hundred times in Olivia Potts’ book A Half Baked Idea, but when I read this sentence, it was like it had been plucked straight from my core memories. That unmistakably fresh and lightly floral Chanel smell, a bathroom sink lined with shiny cherry red pots, the Silk Cuts she eventually gave up but insisted on keeping a crumpled pack at the bottom of her handbag “just in case.” That’s my mum. I distinctly remember my sharp intake of breath as I read it. I took a picture of the page and sent it to my brothers, saying: “Another bit of the book that reminded me of mum.”

My copy of A Half Baked Idea was gifted to me by one of my closest friends (love you, Gen), who’s also lost her mum. I’ve written already in this newsletter about how lonely grief can be, but when you feel seen and understood by someone you love, or you see your experience reflected at you from the pages of a book, it is incredibly validating. A special friend, and a special book.

Which brings me to today’s guest, the book’s wonderful author, Olivia. Today, Olivia is a food writer and a chef, but as she explains, she “came to it through an unusual route.” If you read A Half Baked Idea—which you absolutely should, I can’t recommend it enough—then you’ll learn about how Olivia’s mum’s death led to her leaving a career as a criminal barrister to go and train at Le Cordon Bleu. In her grief, she found comfort and stability in the precision and creative flair needed for patisserie—immersing herself in something that’s inherently a source of pleasure.

It’s a very warming feeling to be able to have these conversations with people whose work has had such a positive impact on me since my mum died, and this interview with Olivia is no different—beautifully detailed reflections on her late mum, Ruth: the music they loved, how she keeps her present in her children’s lives and how nothing beats a belting singalong when you’re alone in the car.

As usual, 50 percent of proceeds from this week’s newsletter will be donated to Cancer Research UK. Do you know someone who might find comfort in this series? Please forward this to them <3 I hope you enjoy reading.

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Can you tell me a bit about yourself and what you do?

I’m a food writer and chef. I came to it through an unusual route, in that I used to be a criminal barrister, which is what I’d always wanted to do growing up—I was sure it was the right career for me. And then I started, and it turned out it wasn’t. I ended up leaving the bar to go and retrain in patisserie at Le Cordon Bleu after my mother died. I started a whole new career in food and drink writing, and somehow ended up chef-ing, baking for cafes and running a wedding catering company along the way. They were part of the plan even less than the food writing.

Who’s the person you’ve chosen to remember today?

We’re remembering my mum, who died... I’m hopeless with dates. Whenever anyone asks me when she died, I can’t remember. I wonder if that’s something your brain does to protect you. But she died about 12 years ago, and she was called Ruth Potts. Ruth Littlehales when she was born, and then Potts when she married my dad.

Can you tell me a bit about her and your relationship?

We were very, very close. My sister and I were both very close with her—and with one another—but we had quite individual relationships. In some ways, mum and I were very similar. We shared similar passions. We were both mad readers. Although she never really had an interest in cookery, she was greedy like I am, just interested in all food. Obsessed with reading menus and food magazines, even if it didn’t translate into actual cooking.

But perhaps because of our similarities, we also drove each other mad in that distinctive mother and daughter way. We were both quite prone to anxiety, maybe a little bit controlling, quite a similar sense of humour. I used to describe her as my best friend, and I sort of moved away from doing that because it felt like a bit of a cliché, but I really think she was my best friend. We would speak at least once a day, if not multiple times.

I have a really close relationship with my father and we love each other very much, but it’s distinctly different to what I had with my mother. She died quite unexpectedly, so it was a real severing of that relationship, rather than any sort of ability to come to terms with it or say goodbye. It was a very abrupt end, a very non-cathartic end to that sort of closeness, that relationship that I probably won’t feel in any other part of my life again, I don’t think.

I feel the same. I know what you mean about saying she was my best friend, but I think my mum was my best friend, too. I’m very blessed to have amazing female friends in my life. But nothing quite cuts the same, does it?

No. 12 years on, or however long it is, several times a week I will still go to call her to tell her something that’s almost always something completely mundane. When something big happens, too, but it’s normally mundane stuff, where it’s saying things like, “Can you remember that book we both read?” A book that literally no one else in the world I know read, and I can’t remember the name of it. That closeness of relationship, the muscle-memory is so deep, that even over a decade later I can’t shake off her being the first port of call.

Thank you for sharing a bit about Ruth. Is there a particular record or artist that really reminds you of her?

I sort of ruined it for myself, because we played it at her funeral, and I now find it hard to listen to. The artist that I associate most strongly with mum is Kirsty MacColl, who, although she is well known and beloved, she’s not like the Beatles or Elvis. It’s not ubiquitous, so very rarely do I walk into a shop and hear her playing. Which is helpful in its own way, and it makes me feel like it’s a closer bond with mum. And as it happens, I really like Kirsty MacColl. I’m just thinking about it now, that “Days,” which is probably my favourite song of Kirsty’s, is what we played at the end of mum’s funeral. It does make it very difficult to listen to that song and enjoy it, because I’ve made it too associated with her and the really hard bits.

If you think about that music and your mum, does it conjure particular memories of where she would be listening to the music, or where you would be together?

We normally played music in the sitting room, which tended to be where we’d be if something fancy was happening. We had a living room which had the TV in. We didn’t really play music in there. And then we had a sitting room where we’d go for Christmas or if friends came round. The background noise to our life otherwise was BBC Radio 2, which Kirsty MacColl was probably on quite a bit. But my memory of my mum would be her, not even in the same room as Kirsty MacColl, it’d be her in the kitchen with Kirsty playing from the living room. There was music that she and my dad both loved, but Kirsty was like a piece of her. And it didn’t matter that she wasn’t in the same room, her presence was felt simply by Kirsty playing.

She didn’t play musical instruments and she didn’t have a strong singing voice, but she was the best whistler I’ve ever encountered. So, I often think of her whistling, not whole songs, but phrases of songs in the kitchen. Going around, doing household tasks while something’s playing in another room.

Were there other artists that she’d be whistling along to?

I grew up with a lot of Billy Joel, but the first band I remember her introducing me to is The Beautiful South, in all their incarnations. Starting as The Housemartins, then going on to become The Beautiful South and having different female singers alongside them. They were mum’s band.

They’ve become a part of my musical landscape, which I didn’t realise until I was in my sister’s car a few years ago. We have quite different tastes in music, but she’s completely adopted The Beautiful South as well, plays them all the time and knows all those songs the way I do. Again, it feels like a little touch of mum that creeps into your life now and again.

Do you think your relationship with music has changed since your mum passed away?

I think I’m far away enough from the death now that I’m able to see that particular aspect of life with her in a slightly nostalgic way, rather than a painful way. I feel sad about books that she didn’t get to read. She was more generalist with music, whereas she and I shared a really specific taste in books. If I encounter a book that she won’t get to read, I feel very sad about it. Whereas I think you could turn on almost any radio station and she’d probably have enjoyed it.

I think it changed for a long time. It really mattered to me. We only had two pieces of music playing at her funeral, which was “Days” by Kirsty MacColl and a Billy Joel song. I think those songs that had previously been a touch point to her, and sources of joy, became more complicated. And for a long time not just the songs, but the artists themselves, and anything really that reminded me of her.

That makes sense. So, cooking and reading have given you great comfort over the years. Do you think that music has also been one of those things for you?

I’m prone to overthinking. I have a very busy little mental narrative going on, and I’m quite an anxious person, and that’s exacerbated by something like grief. So that means I listen to music to really take me out of myself and out of my head. That often means the way I consume music is quite solitary. It’ll often be in my headphones when I’m doing big, fast walking. Or when I’m driving. I have the children now, who demand Old MacDonald, but when I was in charge and used to drive three-hour stretches for work, I couldn’t really listen to podcasts or audio books, it had to be music, and ideally big, belty music.

I can’t sing. It’s a great sadness in my life that I’m almost tone deaf. But when I’m in my car on my own, I do not think there is a better stress reliever than really singing along. I’m a musicals geek, so it’s often musicals, from the overture right through to the end. I don’t really listen to other things as full albums, because, well, I’m a musical Philistine. But when it comes to musicals, I’ll play those all the way through, and I’ll sing every word. But I would never, ever do that with anyone in the car, even my sister. I have to be on my own. I can’t imagine a rest, or a drug or an experience that makes you feel better than an hour or two of doing that on your own and coming out the other side.

How do you like to honour your mum’s memory in your day to day, musically or otherwise?

I try and talk about her with my kids, which is quite hard. My eldest is three and a half and my youngest is one and a half, so she’s got no idea. I’ve tried to normalise talking about her, but I’ve clearly done it in ways that are more confusing than I anticipated. Because when my eldest relays what he thinks has happened to my mother and to me, it’s different every time and rarely involves her dying. It’s confused for him by the fact that my father’s remarried. So he has a grandma who’s not my mum. I call my mum granny. I try and talk about her, not just about grief, but granny as a person, as my mum and as a relationship.

That’s something I got from her. Her dad died when she was 13, so I grew up with a parent talking openly about loss and grief and about her father’s character. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know about him. I think there’ll come a time when those conversations become harder for my children, because they don’t really understand the prospect of losing someone you love. I’m hoping we’ll have a way into talking about that, having normalised this person.

She didn’t love being photographed, which in retrospect drives me mad. I want to be photographed because I want my children to have loads of photos of me and with me. We try and look at photos of her. I have a very poor visual memory, so that often feels like a way of honouring her. It feels like a tighter connection than if I’m just talking about her. We actually have an oil painting of her, from when she was 14 or 15, up in our study. So I see her every day.

I think it’s hard to keep the memory of someone alive if you’re not talking about them. Every time I see my sister, we go straight back to where we were when mum was alive, where our relationship was just taking the piss out of her in the most loving way. Every conversation is: "Do you remember when mum did this? Remember when mum did that? And I think that’s really important.

That’s my way of honouring her, chatting about her all the time. I think when you’ve written a memoir about someone, you can almost end up crystallising certain aspects of their life or their being, because you have to commit it to the page. There are things that become concrete, even if they don’t necessarily feel concrete. And I’m not a very concrete person. I’m often questioning my own memories. I want more details. I want other people’s recollections. And I think trying to talk about her with dad, with my sister, trying to make sure that we’re always trying to find little things about her that I didn’t know. I certainly found it hard when I had the children, that I couldn’t ask her how she found that.

That’s something I think about a lot.

I think you grieve the life you don’t get to live as you grow older without them, you know? I didn’t have my mother there when I had my first child, but I also didn’t have her there when my first child became interesting and had a personality. And that was almost harder, because it was more about them than me, and because I knew how much she’d have enjoyed it.

It’s about constantly bringing her up and refusing to let her become some stayed memory. She has to be a real, coloured-in part of my life, and I hope, probably to a slightly lesser extent, my children’s lives—because that’s my legacy, in the way that I’m her legacy.

Also, having photos of myself is almost a way of saying, “Screw you.” The things that I lacked when I lost her, God forbid that I die early, but my children will not be short of photos, because I’ve learned. I also write them notes all the time, so there are pieces of me everywhere, because I feel like I could never have enough pieces of her. So, I think the way I live my life, thinking about how much I miss her and how much I love her, and hoping that my children will feel an echo of that. It makes me live in a more intentional way.

That was a lovely answer, thank you. What you said about notes, keeping people present and talking about them all the time, I really resonate with all of it.

If you could share a tool that you’ve benefitted from in grief, what do you think you would say?

My answer is double-sided. I don’t think there are points for being put together when a traumatic grief happens. You can’t win at grieving, or at death. It took me a lot longer to deal with some aspects of my grief because I was intent on being strong, making sure that the funeral was organised and that no one saw any weakness in my nascent career. You don’t need to be that strong person.

That said, nothing anyone could’ve said would’ve stopped me behaving that way. With my mum having lost her father when she was young, I think I absorbed her ideas about propriety around grief and death. I was acting in a way I thought would make her proud. When I eventually did start to deal with those aspects of grief, I felt a lot of guilt and regret. I worried that I’d missed out, maybe I’d forgotten things or not kept items because I was being quite clinical.

Now I feel sorry for the Liv that was bereaved and the Liv that was going through therapy years later trying to grapple with it all. I coped in the way I had to cope. Looking back, second guessing it or berating yourself is the biggest waste of time and energy. Now, 12 years on, I survived at different stages in different ways, and I’ve been able to honour mum in different ways with time, too. And my relationship with grief has changed.

It’s not even just to be kind to yourself, because that’s an easy thing to say when people are grieving, “Be kind to yourself. Give yourself a break.” Well, sometimes you do have to organise a funeral. Sometimes, if you have someone near you who’s coping worse than you are, you do have to be the strong one. It’s easy to say, “Let yourself grieve in the way that you need to.” We don’t live in a vacuum; we have interpersonal relationships. Most people have jobs. It’s hard to radically grieve in the moment of death. But that’s okay. You can come back to stuff. You can come back to ideas. You can revisit difficult moments. You can revisit good moments. Just don’t beat yourself up. I beat myself up so much, and it was pointless. Try and ride the waves, and know that the sea will calm.

Buy A Half Baked Idea here

This is My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today's newsletter will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so please consider a paid subscription for £4 per month.

Subscribe now

If you know me, or you've followed my writing for a while, you may know that my grief journey goes hand in hand with Jayda G's music.

In 2021, I wrote about how profoundly her 2020 single "Both Of Us" (and the accompanying video by Lou Jasmine) had impacted me as my mum was dying. In 2022, I had the honour of speaking to her for Rolling Stone UK, where we talked about how the track's meaning had transformed in a time when people so needed solace and connection.

"It grew into this thing I could never have imagined," she told me at the time. "You never know how your words and the music will be interpreted by others. And that's the beauty of art."

Then, in 2023, Jayda released Guy, a beautiful album dedicated to her late father, and the result of a journey she'd undertaken to learn more about him and his life.

I feel incredibly privileged to have had another conversation with Jayda for My Mum Loved This Song, in which I learned more about her father, William Richard Guy, and how he inspired her deep loves for both music and the natural world.

If you're not familiar, Jayda G is a GRAMMY-nominated producer and DJ whose take on house, soul, disco and beyond makes for some of the most ebullient moments in dance music today. Her DJ sets, overflowing with energy, are a celebration of dancing and connection and are truly a joy to behold.

She also holds a master's degree in environmental toxicology and once had, as she put it, "a whole other life" in academia and field work, working with what felt like "every animal on the planet." Her commitment continues, though, as her 2024 environmental documentary, Blue Carbon, explored how ocean and coastal ecosystems can absorb carbon from the atmosphere.

This was a beautiful conversation that I am so proud to share today. Jayda and I spoke about finding signs of our people in music and the outdoors, how grief reshapes our relationships with those we've lost, and how the birth of her son, Isador, has opened a new, powerful connection to her own childhood memories.

50 percent of proceeds from My Mum Loved This Song are donated to Cancer Research UK. If you don't have a paid subscription but would like to make a one-off payment, you can do so here.

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I would love for this newsletter to reach people who might find comfort in it, so please consider forwarding the email, sharing the link or sending the playlist to someone you love. Either way, thank you so much for reading—and the biggest, most heartfelt thank you to Jayda for her time.

Who will you be remembering today? What's their name, and can you tell me a bit about them?

My father, William Richard Guy. He passed away in 1998, just before my tenth birthday.

I loved my dad very much. I still love him, because I really believe grief is an ongoing thing, and it's just learning a different relationship with that person. He was instrumental in both of my loves in life, which is nature and music. In terms of nature, both my parents were tree planters, meaning—this is such a Canadian term—you go out into the wilderness and plant trees, and you get paid to do it. It was a big thing in the '70s, and it's still a thing.

I grew up in a small town in British Columbia, Canada, surrounded by lakes, rivers and mountains. My dad would take me fishing. He taught me not to fear the outdoors. I have this long-winded story, I won't get too into it, but it was when our cats brought home a snake (that they'd mauled a bit) and my dad came with me, we picked it up and put it in a box. We put chicken wire on the box and kept it for a month. The snake totally healed, and then we let it go. It's those memories of being outdoors, being with nature and it being really fun.

And then music wise, a big part of my music love comes from my dad. I grew up watching him making mixtapes. So in Canada, you don't have any money to go anywhere except for by car, so road trips are a big thing. And I don't mean a couple of hours—that's like a regular day—this is like week-long road trips where we drove across Canada or down to California. He would prepare these specific mixtapes for days before each trip. Music was a really big thing in the house.

How would you describe his character?

He was larger than life. He was tall, about six foot four. He had a really loud laugh. People who knew him say I have a similar laugh to him, which is nice. Growing up in a small town like Grand Forks, we were the only Black people, so he stood out within the community. Everyone knew him, everyone loved him. Both him and my mom—my mom still to this day—were very, very involved in the community. My dad was a social worker and worked with a lot of at-risk youth in our town. I've had people come up to me being like, "Your dad saved my life." He was very empathetic. He believed in people first, you know? Serving your community, serving the people you love, doing what you can for them. And [he was] just fun and loud. And two contrasts, too, where he was the life of the party, but also introspective and would read a lot. He had many hobbies, but one of his main hobbies was carving masks. I have a lot of memories as a kid, sitting in his wood workshop. I was either reading or watching TV, and he would be carving. We had a lot of quiet time together, being comfortable in that quiet space.

Thank you for sharing a bit about him. He sounds like a very caring person.

He was, big time.

Is there a particular record or artist that reminds you of him?

There are so many. This could be a long list, but for some reason this one stood out when the question was posed to me. It's called "Your Song." The original is obviously Elton John, but this one is sung by Al Jarreau. This is some nerdy record-digging people shit, but it's from a specific live album. He sings "Your Song," and there's this whole bit where he's talking, and it just talks to the specific genre for me—of jazz and soul, where the showmanship of an artist is how they engage with the audience. Anyways, this song was a big one on those road trips. And I remember listening to it with my mom and dad driving. It was always playing at nighttime.

So if you picture that song and your dad, you see him in the car?

Exactly, with him really engaging in the music. Singing along, he would dance along as well. We'd have dance parties in our house. That's just one song out of many happy memories of him and music.

What was your setup for music at home?

My dad was so into sound. But this was in the '90s and it's not like we could afford the most fancy anything. I remember we had—oh my gosh, I haven't talked about this in forever—it was so exciting at the time. It was a CD player, and I'm laughing because it had multiple CDs. This was a big deal in the '90s.

He wanted the music to be played in all the rooms in the house. And I remember him getting these speakers and hand-wiring them all through the house, into the walls, all to go into our TV room, which is where the whole console setup was. The dancing setup was in the living room. The way our house is laid out, it's American-style, in the sense that the kitchen, living room and dining room is all open. Then our porch is right outside the living room. The house sits on a mountain top, so you can see our tiny little town from there. It's picturesque and beautiful, and open with high ceilings and stuff.

That sounds like an excellent place to listen to music in every room.

For me the answer to this question can change quite dramatically, but how does it make you feel when you hear specific records that make you think of your dad?

I'm definitely the same as you, it changes day to day. Sometimes it makes me laugh. Sometimes, well, it's interesting, because I've been feeling it a lot since my son was born: a longing for these memories that you're kind of grasping at, but it feels like water or sand going through your hand, like it's slipping away as I get older and those memories are further in the past. I'm sure you feel the same way, you're very aware of time. Grief really puts a stamp in terms of time, an awareness. So those songs can transport you, and it reminds you of the time that's passed, if that makes any sense.

It absolutely does. It's strange, isn't it, because sometimes I crave deeply listening to songs that remind me of my mum. And sometimes it's like, I absolutely do not want to hear that song, not even one bar.

There are some songs that still make me cry, or some I haven't listened to in forever. They'll come up on a playlist and hit me unexpectedly. For better or for worse. But in the end, it may hurt the heart a bit, but it's bittersweet because there's a lot of love in those memories.

Yeah, quite a common thing in these conversations is that the songs seem to show themselves.

Oh, yeah.

And the resounding feeling is: that's your person, being present for a moment. And it's interesting, because did those songs used to play before, and I just wasn't paying attention? Or are they finding their way to me a bit more?

Yeah, I totally get that. I have that more in nature. Living in Canada, you have bald eagles, and something my mom and I would always share—probably to my annoyance, when I was young, I'd be like, "Moooom!" But we'd be driving, and there'd be a bald eagle flying ahead, and my mom would be like, "Oh, there's dad. He's saying hi." And, you know, I was 12 or 13 and just thinking it was lame, right? But it definitely carried on. And it's something that's been interesting, in that moving to the UK, there are no bald eagles. And so I remember moving here and being like, oh, I don't have that nature reminder of him.

And then, there wasn't anything specific that actually made me decide this, but my husband and I were walking in the Cotswolds, where kites are a big thing. The first time I saw a kite—I literally thought it was an eagle—I thought, "Oh, this is my reminder of my father over here in the UK." So consequently, I get really happy when I see kites when we're hiking now.

We were hiking a few weeks ago and they came so close, as they do, because they glide on the wind—hence kites, obviously—and they can get really low. I think it's such a gift, seeing huge birds of prey. I do have that every so often with music, too, maybe not with that specific song, but there'll be some that come up that will remind me of my dad. I have that with Prince. Whenever a Prince song comes on, I know it's a good omen. We're big Prince fans over here. Sorry, that was off on a tangent.

No, it's lovely. I love hearing about stuff like that. It's quite magic, I think.

What's yours? Do you have a song or specific animal?

In nature, it's horses for me. My mum and I loved horses. I go to a specific place each year around her birthday to go for a walk in some bluebell woods. And there's been a few times where I've walked in a different direction for no reason, and then I come across a field full of ponies when I have no idea it's there.

Wow, I love that. I think it's beautiful. I love those things and I really lean into it.

Yeah, I think it's important. Sometimes I wonder if I'm making these things up to help myself, but I think it's more than that. And we just have to lean into it, like you said.

And also, does it matter? The most important thing is how it makes you feel in the moment. And again, it's redefining this relationship. And these are the moments where it feels like you're a little bit closer to that person.

What is the music that helps you navigate particularly griefy periods—for want of a better word—or music that helps you navigate difficult times?

I'll give you a specific one, and then I'll go off on a tangent as well. I wouldn't say this is specifically grief, but I find this album is like a warm blanket. It's soothing. I find it brings everything down a notch a little bit for me, especially at night. I listen to it when I’m driving or flying at night. I just had this vision of sitting in an aeroplane with my headphones on. It’s Cassandra Wilson, an album called Belly of the Sun. There's a lot of covers on that album, if you don't know it, give it a listen. It's great. And Cassandra Wilson is a super well-known jazz singer. She had been a backup singer to Prince as well—it's all connected! Belly of the Sun came out after my father passed, and I found it was an album that me and my mom would listen to a lot at night on the road. In a way, it took over the music that my father would play at night on the road.

So that album is a big one. And then in terms of lifting my mood, if I'm really sad, I'll just put on any disco or soul music. It reminds me of the brightness of the world and the happiness of the world, even if I'm not feeling it within myself. It can guide me towards it, even if I'm not feeling it, you know? And that's [always] happened even before DJing.

Have you heard any recent music where you've thought, "My dad would love this?"

It's funny you've asked that! Yes, there's so much. I was literally thinking about this the other day. I was going down an R&B tangent and a rap tangent; I was listening to a lot of Kendrick Lamar. My dad would love Kendrick Lamar. He'd be so pumped that someone like that, who's saying the things he's saying, is in the world. My dad really liked hip-hop. And my brother used to work in hip-hop.

It was an R&B album I was listening to. Cleo Sol. [My husband] Darrell just went and saw her recently, and I was thinking how my dad would like Cleo Sol and SAULT. He loved R&B and soul, all that stuff.

How do you honour his memory in your day to day, whether musically or otherwise?

I say thank you a lot, in my head. Especially with the birth of my son Isador, there's moments… They tell you this shit, when they're like, "Oh, you're gonna feel this and that when you're a parent," and a lot of it is true! But it just hits different, because you're actually going through it, and there's just so many precious moments.

I am so thankful for them, and thankful for the time I had with my father. We had a lovely relationship. We really got along; I was a total daddy's girl. So, it makes seeing my son—by the way, he's so long, I swear this kid is going to end up being as tall as my father! He's nine months old and he's the length of a two-year-old! But I feel like there's these little moments where I remember my dad because I'm with my son, and I get to remember those childhood memories.

You've been living with your grief for your entire adult life and beyond. What advice do you think you would give to someone earlier in their journey?

Oh, again, it's interesting you ask this question, because my bestie, one of her close friends just passed away. And I remember her saying, "Oh, I get it now." This is her first big death that she's going through, and I said to her, "Yeah, it's really hard. And I know this is hard to hear, but this isn't going to go away. You're forever changed. But your relationship with this feeling is going to shift and morph and change as time goes on and you're going to learn to live with it, and it's going to be okay."

That's very true.

It's a bit blunt, but...

But it is true. And I think it's that, even when it feels like you're not going to be okay, this gigantic, horrible wave will pass, and you'll get through to the other side, and then there'll be another wave. I like that analogy, you'll manage to keep floating, basically.

You do manage to keep floating. I think the thing that's helped me the most is what I've been saying a lot through this interview, which is that the relationship you have with that person isn't gone just because they're not here in the physical, you know? Your relationship is changing, but it still lives on.

Listen to the My Mum Loved This Song playlist

This is My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

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"Now I think about it, I can still see the winding roads and the bright blue sky."

On a road trip down the coast of Greece with her father and stepmum, Rosie Cain had Fleet Foxes' debut album on repeat. Fast forward to today, and listening to that record remains inextricably connected to the sweeping landscapes they drove through on that trip.

Rosie DJs as Rosie Ama and runs her own label, Human Endeavour Records. By day, she's a product manager at the legendary house label Defected. She was also a journalist for many years, working at Stamp The Wax and Ransom Note. A life in music and writing has helped Rosie find tools to help her navigate the grief of losing both her dad and two dear friends in the space of a year. She honours her people through the music that helps her feel connected to them.

"I thought about how lucky I am to have music as a way to remember," she said. "To pay homage and celebrate them."

As you'll learn in this interview, Rosie's late father lived a full life and was deeply involved in music, which became the nucleus of their relationship. But their relationship wasn't easy, Rosie explains, and after his death, she found herself having to navigate outsider expectations on how she "should" have been feeling. I've written before about societal expectations after death; how we put people on a pedestal and almost expect grief to play out as if our relationships exist without nuance or flaws. Rosie's candidness made for such a rich and sincere conversation which I am proud to publish as part of the series today, September 23rd, on the anniversary of her dad's death.

50 percent of all the proceeds from this week's newsletter will go to Cancer Research UK. If you're not a paid subscriber but you'd like to make a one-off payment to My Mum Loved This Song for Rosie's edition, you can do so here:

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Thank you for reading. I'd love for these newsletters to reach people that will find comfort in the conversations. If you know anyone who might, please forward it on.

Who's the person you've chosen to remember today? What's their name, and can you tell me a bit about them and your relationship?

I've chosen to talk about my dad, David Cain. He was a strong-willed, strong-minded person—sometimes to his detriment—but I really respected that about him. He always stood up for what he believed in.

We were two generations apart, he was 50 when I was born. We didn't have the most straightforward relationship, but it was a solid one. He moved to Poland when I was about three, so I only saw him twice a year, which definitely played into the sense of disconnection I felt when it came to grief.

He was so many things: a mathematician, a music and drama director, part of the Radiophonic Workshop—the BBC's sound-effects unit in the late '60s. He helped create some of the first electronic jingles before synthesisers existed, working alongside Delia Derbyshire, John Baker, Dick Mills and other pioneers. He also produced music for The Hobbit and War of the Worlds for the BBC. He later became a maths teacher, and taught teachers in Poland. He was a very, very clever person. It took me three attempts to pass my maths GCSE, though, so that gene didn't get passed down!

It's hard to put into words, but sometimes I felt deeply connected to him, and other times very disconnected. It was like he didn't quite understand me. He definitely found it hard to connect with me when I was younger, especially as an angsty, moody teenager. He was already in his mid-60s, while I was raving, smoking cigarettes and getting pissed on family holidays.

But as I got older, I felt like he let me in more. Music was a massive part of that. Once I became involved with music, I found a way to connect with him that hadn't been there before. It was an important change in our relationship. After that, I was always trying to impress him, which wasn't easy, but the main album I'm going to talk about was one I recommended to him. I thought, "I've finally cracked it. He respects my music taste now."

A lot of the time, most of my Christmas and birthday presents were his own music, which probably says something about his personality. But he was really talented, and I had huge admiration for his work ethic.

What kind of music makes you think of him?

So much. A lot of my trips to Poland involved us putting CDs on in the living room, well, him putting it on—I didn't really get a look in. That's when I started being able to give him music as presents.

There were a lot of different artists, like Amadou & Mariam, Amara Touré, lots of West African music. But the album I bought him that he absolutely loved was by Fleet Foxes, their [2008] self-titled record. I love it too, it was an album I listened to over and over when it came out, and still now it just makes me feel something, even without that connection to my dad.

I have a vivid memory from one holiday. He used to take us away every year. He and my stepmum both taught teachers, they worked in what's called a Collegium, and they'd have the same summer holidays as teachers in schools. They'd take their car and drive to different locations around Europe for six weeks with all their camping stuff and me and my brother would go and join them.

One summer, when my brother stayed home, it was just me with my dad and stepmum. We met somewhere in Greece, then drove down the coast together. Fleet Foxes was on the whole time. It's so strange, because now I think about it, I can envisage all of the roads. I've never been back, but I can see the winding roads, the bright blue sky.

It's such a special album, and a special memory. Those holidays were when I felt really connected to my dad. Because sometimes afterwards we wouldn't speak for weeks. And just being in such close quarters with him, it brought out a different side to him that I didn't know or understand when I was away from him.

How does listening to that record make you feel today?

It generally gives me good feelings, though it's hard to describe. It's a cathartic feeling—sometimes painful, but still good. I think I need to feel that sometimes. As I've been thinking about this more I've realised the main way I connected with my dad was through music. Sometimes it felt like our only connection. So when I listen, it allows me to purge a bit and it brings back memories of him that I don't always feel when I'm not listening to music.

I think I feel grief a bit differently. Because sometimes I'd go six months without seeing him, the disconnect was so strong that—not that I forget he's not there—but he just wasn't there. Music reminds me we did have that relationship so I like immersing myself in those feelings when I'm listening to it.

In a way those painful moments can feel very necessary. You do have to sit with those feelings sometimes.

100 percent. I really agree. I'm never one to shy away from emotions anyway. I'm quite a sensitive person, I love a good cry. But I do think, like you said, it's necessary, and it's also a reminder of how amazing music is. That sounds so corny, but...

No, you're right. I know what you mean. In all of these conversations, at one point someone will be like, "Wow, it's just because music's so great, isn't it?" That's why I had this idea in the first place. It doesn't matter who your person was, or the relationship that you had, you'll have something that takes you straight back to the roads in Greece, or whatever it may be.

Do you think that your relationship with music has changed at all since your dad died?

I don't think it has. Sometimes I feel a deep sadness when something great happens, and I think, "Oh, damn, they're not here to share it." Those things are usually music-related for me. Or I'll hear an artist and think, "I wish I could show my dad, he'd love that." All these little pieces, these music discoveries, make me wonder if they might have brought us that little bit closer in life. I know that sounds quite sad, but I feel like we never fully reached that… Maybe I just felt he never fully understood what I was doing.

There was one time, when he was really ill and I was playing Glastonbury for the first time. This would have been the second time he had cancer, because it was 2019 and that's when he passed away. I'd just got my first Glastonbury set and I couldn't wait to tell him. By then he could barely speak because of the chemo, he was really mumbling, but I rang him and I could hear the excitement in his voice, the change in his tone. Because he went to Glastonbury when he was younger it was like a measure of, "Wow, okay, she's really doing something noteworthy."

After he passed away, my stepmum told me he used to listen to my radio shows. He never told me, but he was silently doing this in the background. That did make me feel good, that he was engaging with what I was doing—even if he didn't tell me.

Are there any other artists or records that have helped you navigate grief?

I used to play a lot of folk music, soundtrack and chanson on my radio show. That kind of music is really healing for me. I find a lot of solace in it, and I get more of a kick from digging for those kinds of sounds because they give me more of a physical and emotional reaction.

I lost two of my friends in the same year that my dad died. My friend Harley from home five months before and my friend Alex T six months after. Because they were so young—Harley was 31, Alex was 25—I felt a lot of guilt when my dad passed away that I didn't feel the same way I did when they died. When someone dies, people talk to you as if you should feel a certain way: "Oh my God, that's your dad." It's because of your relationship on paper, whereas they don't know about the circumstances of that relationship, and the fact that, of course it was really horrible that he passed away, but he was nearly 80, and he lived a very full life. I know that if he looked back, he would be happy with everything that he did. Alex and Harley didn't get that chance. I was thinking, "Why does this have more of an emotional impact on me when they're my friends and this is my dad?" Coming to terms with that was a bit weird, especially with external pressures.

I mention this because I did a show for my dad. I played his music, music he loved and music that reminded me of him and helped me through that time. I did the same for Harley and I contributed music to another show for Alex. I thought about how lucky I am to have music as a way to remember, pay homage and celebrate them, because not everyone has that.

That must have been a very therapeutic process. You briefly touched on this, but if your dad was around now, what music would you want to share with him?

A group called NYX. They're a female electronic drone choir. That's a bit of a mouthful, but they use their voices, manipulate them through Ableton and layer lots of effects. It's quite pagan and choral. Somebody once dubbed my dad "the first medieval electronic composer," because he made Baroque-influenced compositions, so I think he would have loved that kind of style and sound.

His music taste was a little all over the place, though. Weirdly, the first time I ever saw him cry was when he made me watch a DVD of Peter Gabriel's live performance. He cried twice, and I thought, "How have we come this far in our lives and I've never seen you cry, and now it's to Peter Gabriel riding a little bike on stage?!" But it was a beautiful moment. I don’t know Peter Gabriel's work that well, but there was one song about a father and son, or something about a relationship, and I remember him holding my hand.

How do you like to honour your dad's memory?

The main thing is how it's brought my brother and I so much closer to my stepmum. We took her on a trip to see one of my dad's favourite artists, Goran Bregović, and then we actually saw him again a few months ago. She came to the UK for the first time in 18 years. It was at indigo at The O2 and everyone else was going to see Usher, while we were off to see this Balkan gypsy wedding singer. Going to gigs like that always feels like a celebration. Being there with our stepmum, all of us arm in arm, really brings me back to my dad.

And one other thing. Do you know Jonny Trunk? He runs Trunk Records, one of my favourite labels. He puts out oddball library music, jazz and kitschy soundtracks. He reissued one of my dad's records in 2012 and invited him on his radio show. Then, a few years ago, Jonny celebrated his 25th anniversary, and I did an interview with him at his house for a feature on the label. We got to speak about my dad. It was just a really nice experience, because he had all these opinions and insights about my dad's music. It was beautiful to hear, because obviously he'd found it and wanted to put it out again.

It was nice to hear about my dad from someone else's viewpoint and get to document it. That's not something you get to do all the time, but as you say, writing is such a beautiful way to remember people. You can immerse yourself in it and use it as a coping mechanism. To some degree I feel that as well, but I've not had many chances to write in-depth features. That was the first time in years I'd been able to go to someone's house for an interview, and it was connected to my dad. It felt really nice to write that.

Rosie put together a playlist of music that reminds her of her dad. You can also listen to the full My Mum Loved This Song playlist here.

This is My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today's newsletter will be donated to Trekstock, so please consider a paid subscription for £4 per month.

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If you were at Glastonbury in 2024, you probably remember LCD Soundsystem's set on the Saturday. The setting sun glowed over the vast crowd as they closed with "All My Friends," one of my all-time favourite songs. It was a perfect Pyramid Stage moment.

For this week's guest, Nafeesa Arshad, that set holds even deeper meaning. It was her first Glastonbury, she was there with her sister Ikra and they'd managed to meet up with a friend of Saima, their late sister.

"Even now it makes me feel something," she told me. "Being out in that open space with your loved ones, all thinking about the same person, there's such unity and solidarity. That was a huge standout moment for me."

Nafeesa is a creative producer at War Child and the founder of Goodness Gracious Grief—the platform she launched after Saima passed away in 2020, aged just 31. What began as an Instagram community grew into supper clubs, creative workshops and contributing to platforms like BBC Radio 4, gal-dem and Metro. Forcibly separated from family and friends during lockdown, Nafeesa had sought out a community and found there wasn't anything out there for people her age who were also navigating sibling loss. So she did it herself, and soon enough, people were coming together in the space she'd created.

In this interview, Nafeesa glows with pride for her sister, who founded the beloved community spot Masala Wala Cafe in Southeast London, and dedicated much of her life to charitable initiatives. Saima was an ambassador for Trekstock, a charity which offers support services and resources to people in their 20s, 30s and 40s who've been diagnosed with cancer.

In Saima's memory, Nafeesa has asked for any proceeds from this edition of the newsletter to be donated to Trekstock. You can support by becoming a paid subscriber for £4 per month, or by making a one-off contribution.

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Nafeesa and I have a lot in common and this conversation was a deeply nourishing one. We came to this all-important conclusion: dancing is the best meditation of all.

Thank you so much for reading My Mum Loved This Song. If you know someone who would find comfort in this series, please share it with them.

Can you tell me a bit about Goodness Gracious Grief?

To talk about Goodness Gracious Grief, I have to start with my sister, Saima Thompson. She was diagnosed with late-stage lung cancer when she was 29. It was completely life-changing, a huge wake-up call and shock; she was so young and at the prime of her life. She passed away in 2020, aged 31. She spent a lot of time confronting death and being vocal about it, and while that didn't make my grief easier—it was truly a horrendous time—it did prepare me for some of the more difficult topics.

During the pandemic, being so cut off and isolated during a time where normally you'd expect your friends to rock up and cook some meals for you, or take you out and just give you that extra layer of support, I was really missing it because I wasn't living near family or friends at the time. With the on/off lockdowns, it was horrible. And so what did I do as a 23-year-old? What's the first thing you do, you turn to your phone, and I was like, there must be people out there talking about grief.

At the time, I saw so much about parental loss, partner loss and baby loss, but I didn't really see anything about sibling loss. And the people I did come across, they had lost their siblings at a later stage in life. So I thought, I'm just gonna give it a go, share my experiences and see what happens. After a few posts, I connected with other young people who'd gone through sibling loss, and I realised there was actually a community here. We were all crying out for help and support.

There was some interest to meet up in person. I was still running Masala Wala Cafe at the time, so I used that as a venue for a few supper clubs and later creative workshops in Peckham, which I loved. One of my other sisters is an artist who really inspires me, so I've always been engaged with creative outlets.

During those on/off lockdowns, it was a different kind of expression, and I found my voice through writing and talking. It was cathartic, and the more I spoke, the more I engaged with other people and their experiences. But to protect my peace, I decided not to keep it up at the same rate.

Now I'm focusing on my job in the humanitarian aid sector, but I know the community is always there. It's not a business or an information platform, so there's no pressure to be consistent. I'm grateful for that—that it's one of many creative, colourful spaces out there where people can connect.

I'd love to hear a bit about your sister and your relationship with her.

I'm one of four sisters. Saima was the oldest, I'm the youngest. We were all very close growing up. It was a single-parent household, just our mum, so a lot of strong female energy. You can imagine how ridiculous that was growing up. But honestly, she taught me everything I knew. Any part of me that's cool or creative comes from her being the best older sister, teaching me so many things, exposing me to new experiences, like taking me to my first gig. My other sisters experienced the same. She was such an educator, always bringing us into her world—whenever she had a new experience, she wanted to pass it on.

She achieved so much in such a short lifetime, more than many people do by their 80s. She was the best kind of co-parent for my mum, becoming a second parent figure for us. She was so loved by her friends and deeply connected to them. She did a year of travelling, lived in Australia and Thailand, and at 25 opened the restaurant in London. That's a huge thing to do, and scary for most people, but instantly it was a success because she stamped her personality on it. It was showcasing our mum's Pakistani home cooking. She empowered and educated us and so many people around her, showing you can have a female-run restaurant and a female head chef. She really brought that food to the forefront.

It opened ten years ago. Back then there weren't many places like it, as you would have associated curry houses with white napkins and men in shirts. Saima wanted the opposite: a cool spot to come by and a community hub. She hosted charitable events and connected with lots of initiatives during that time. You've got to imagine, my sister was a confident, tattooed girlie, bringing so much energy to this community hub. You could see it in the regulars, people coming for their date night because of word of mouth. It was bustling.

The restaurant was called Masala Wala Cafe. We actually closed it at the end of 2021, post-pandemic. My sister Ikra and I had been running it for a few years in the lead up, and while we weren't saying it out loud I think we'd tied this physical place to her. It was her restaurant, created with her hands. Post-Covid, the circumstances changed. We took it as a Saima sign. She was saying "Don't worry, wrap it up." Because she did always say, "Girls, the doors could close tomorrow and the world will keep turning. So just do what's within your means." My sister continues her practice as a designer and I'm now a producer. But it's not goodbye to what it was, or to Masala Wala Cafe as a name.

That was the journey, from the restaurant to how amazing and inspiring she was. But also just her energy. And tying into the theme of this conversation, I grew up on the soundtrack of her life. She never realised how much that influenced myself and my sisters. Some people grow up on their parents' music from the 80s and they have all these memories tied to that, but for me, it was my sister teaching me so much about music from the past and present. She was so passionate about music, you'd go from Arctic Monkeys and The Strokes to A Tribe Called Quest, Nas and then Daft Punk and Soulwax. And it was such an amazing music education to get from a young age, because this was all her CD collection. It was incredible.

She sounds like such a special person. Is there a particular song, record or artist that really reminds you of her?

I had to think about this. A friend of mine has a podcast called Deathbed Discs, and it was really interesting working through that concept: what are the five tracks you'd want at your funeral? For me, I realised I'm like the project manager of my family—anything admin, I just thrive in. I don't know why, I think it's just in me. So I was thinking about my sister's funeral, and how we chose the songs.

One of them was Metronomy's "The Look," just because it's so nostalgic. It came out in 2011 and it really is a testament to that time of indie electronic music. It's uplifting and vivid—you can almost hear the colours—and it's super emotive. I can just imagine my sister playing it. I connect to Metronomy through her and because of her. That also takes me back to times I went to see them live. When you go to see artists that you've connected with because of your loved one, you will forever be reminded of them.

It's interesting how your relationship to a song changes when you choose it for someone's funeral. No one wants to be at their 31-year-old sister's funeral, but it really felt uplifting. I remember thinking, "This is so representative of who she is." It really hit me in a nice way. So now, when I hear it, I feel nostalgic and calm. I don't feel a sense of sadness, instead it connects me to multiple memories.

Do you have a picture in your mind when you think of your sister and that song?

There's memories from home with my mum, getting ready to go out, maybe to a gig at the local rock bar. And then into early adulthood, being at one of Saima's first places she was renting in London. There's loads of memories in the car too, razzing around together, running the business, she was always getting things done. We'd be blaring Rinse FM in the car. It was so nice. If there was a good playlist on, you could guarantee Metronomy would be on there. We listened to them a lot. I don't know how or why, because there's so many artists that really ignite memories of her for me.

And she took you to your first gig, what was that?

I was 13 when I went to my first gig with her. At the time I'd been listening to a lot of Tyler, The Creator. I think one of her friends must have pulled out last minute, and she was like, "Ah, little sis, I know you've been getting into Tyler, let's go." My mind was blown. I'd only ever been to small local indie gigs. It was so vibey, I think it must have been in Camden or something. I had a sip of my first-ever beer and I was like, "Not for me, where's the sugary WKD?"

It was a really fun experience, taking it in together. Later we'd go to day events, and went to see Soulwax. It was always artists we'd enjoyed together, whether from the old CD days or things we connected over in early adulthood.

Do you feel like your relationship with music has changed since Saima's passed away?

I've always listened to a lot of music. I get so much out of it, and it features in so much of my life. It's how I bonded with my boyfriend when we first met. But when you lose someone you're so close to, music says all the unspoken things and helps you connect with emotions. I was listening to it a lot before, but now I listen to so much more. My Spotify Wrapped is through the roof. I'm also trying to appreciate playing records, realising the power of formats too. I feel more reflective when listening to certain music.

I really enjoy the melodic, repetitive nature of electronic dance music, which feels like free-flowing expression. Then there are artists like LCD Soundsystem. I've always thought of my sister when playing them. There's certain songs, like "Oh Baby." We had LCD playing at the funeral, too, which changed my relationship with their music where it's not only an outlet, but also a space to connect with how I'm feeling.

Last year I went to Glastonbury for the first time. Saima was a Glasto queen. She went probably eight times with her friends and always came back with the best stories. It was really special to go with my sister Ikra. We painted a mural in Scissors, up in The Park. LCD were playing the Pyramid Stage, and we met up with one of Saima's friends. The sun was setting, we had our Pyramid Stage moment. It was so perfect.

I think that was one of my all-time favourite Pyramid Stage moments. When they did "All My Friends" as the sun was going down, wow.

Even now it makes me feel something. You can't make it up. Just being out in that open space with your loved ones, all thinking about the same person, there's such unity and solidarity. That was a huge standout moment for me.

Every year, my journey with grief changes. I never quite know how I'm feeling, but it was an amazing way to connect with her. I know music will always be a way to connect with my sister, which also brings me to dancing. Dancing is such a huge outlet. I've always loved twirling around, going to festies, shows and events. I genuinely love it for the joy of dancing, not just with friends but the act of dancing on your own. It's just so good for you. Being in that space where people connect to music for all sorts of reasons, yet you're just so together.

That was hard during the pandemic. When my sister passed, I didn't have that accessible to me, so I found other outlets. I was going on two or three-hour walks, listening to podcasts. But at the first opportunity, I was with friends, dancing in their kitchens and eventually back to shows and festivals. I don't always get deep, but sometimes I'll pause and think, "Wow, that sun has just hit so amazingly while I'm here dancing," or, "This is a Saima moment." Big love to my friends for allowing that space. Because most of the time I'm quite silly in myself, but then there's moments that I want space to be able to speak about my sister. My friends really allow for that, which is amazing, and it's a way for them to connect with her, too. When you make friends after losing your loved one, it's so difficult, because how are you ever meant to explain how special that person was? But there's moments, and there's ways to do it. And for me, it's through those powerful, beautiful moments. And nature does that for me, too.

I've been persevering through a chronically sprained ankle since last year because I tried to learn to snowboard. And it was my worst nightmare because it meant I was hindered for a while. I couldn't go for a little dance. For me, tools for grief are genuinely just dancing and not giving a shit. Shake it off. It's such a good release of energy. Your body needs an outlet. That high from exercise, and listening to music on a different level, helps too. That's why my favourite music is electronic because there's such a repetitive nature, but also because it takes you on a journey.

I resonate with so much of what you've just said. Dancing is my best tool. Like you say, sometimes you want to be reflective. I do my best thinking when I'm dancing. But then there are other times when you just want to move your body, feel free, be with your mates and be a bit silly. It's so profound and powerful in that way too.

One of the things I've noticed about myself most since my mum died is that, when the time is right, I'm so much more connected to stuff like that than I ever was before. I guess because I didn't need to be. Now I find so much power, meaning and connection in things. It's a survival tool, isn't it? And when you feel it, you just have to lean into it.

There are moments where you're processing things, confronting stuff you might have pushed down or distracted yourself from during the week. That's so easy to do, because it comes down to survival. You're just trying to get through. But I think there's also an aspect of it that's meditative. It's the best meditation you'll ever do.

Welcome to My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

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You know when you meet someone and instantly warm to them? Pip Roberts, today's guest, is one of those people.

Pip and I met one night at Beat Hotel festival in Marrakech in 2019. I was almost certainly a few cocktails deep (it was a fancy festival) but our interaction left a lasting impression. Pip is a wellness practitioner and mentor whose work centres around themes of connection and rest. You might find her teaching yoga or hosting sound baths at festivals, or leading practices in her studio in Bristol. From her expertise, perhaps it's no surprise that I remember Pip's warm, grounding presence—and also her big, hearty laugh.

Just before Mother's Day this year, Pip's newsletter landed in my inbox. "Tears at the till," read the title. "It's not my favourite weekend of the year." The short newsletter went on to recall crying over tulips in Aldi (been there), and reflecting on the weight of the word mother. I was so moved by Pip's words, and I hoped we'd be able to have the conversation you can now read below.

Pip's mum, Sue, died 15 years ago after a long battle with addiction. Our conversation brings something vital to My Mum Loved This Song: grief can be deeply complex. When someone has died, the societal expectation is that we remember only their best bits. We put people on a pedestal. We talk about them as if they never set a foot wrong. But that's not real life, and I'm immensely grateful for Pip's openness. Sue was a doting mum who was driven by keeping her children close and safe, and things changed when she became sick.

Over time, Pip told me, her tears have become less painful and instead have a little sweetness. Not always, she caveated, because the painful tears will never be gone completely. Today, she finds comfort in movement, in dancing and in certain songs appearing when she needs them most.

50 percent of all the proceeds from this week's newsletter will go to Cancer Research UK. If you're not a subscriber but you'd like to make a one-off payment to My Mum Loved This Song for Pip's edition, you can do so here:

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Thank you so much for reading. If you know someone who might find comfort here, please forward this newsletter along.

Who are you remembering today? What's their name?

Nobody's asked me her name for ages, that's a really sweet question. It wakes things up, doesn't it? Talking about people. I'm remembering my mum Sue, who died 15 years ago.

Can you tell me a bit about her?

She was a really, really good mum when I was younger, like crazy good. The kind of mum who would only drive her four kids around in a Volvo because she wanted to keep them so safe. It was that level of cuddling. And then her mental health declined, and she became an alcoholic, and it all changed.

It's complicated. She got sicker and sicker. But up until I was nine or ten, it was the sweetest thing. That's quite often the saddest part of these things, isn't it?

What's the song or artist that really reminds you of your mum?

Phil Collins. Well, there's the ones that we played at her funeral, they're the ones I can still never hear without the crying when I'm out. "Sussudio" is the track. That's the one that always reminds me of her, not only because it's got her name in it, but also because, well, we just heard far too much Phil Collins in the '90s.

Is there a particular story behind that song, or does it conjure a particular memory?

It always reminds me of the kitchen. A very nice kitchen, big AGA in it, and this CD player that was almost as big as the AGA. That's how big they were back then, right? And it reminds me of waiting for tea to cook. My mum barely played music, I don't think. And I'm not sure if that was because we didn't have access to it like we do these days? You know, there was no Spotify in the '90s, young people! You had to buy CDs, so you were kind of limited in what you loved, unless you were really into music. So yeah, that song reminds me of many, many, many evenings in the kitchen.

There's another artist as well, Gloria Estefan and the song "Rhythm Is Gonna Get You." That's the other really strong memory. My mum had a tape player in her car. Tapes were a whole different beast, weren't they? Because it wasn't a simple skip—things got tangled up, they'd always be in the foot well or get a little twisted. That Gloria Estefan tape was the only one that seemed to stand the test of time in my mum's car.

It was just playing constantly. I think that one tape even saw her through a few cars. So "Rhythm Is Gonna Get You" really reminds me of being in the car with her and just doing loads of family stuff, like you do when you're really little.

It was a long time ago now, though. So, when I was thinking about this, I was like, I can't remember that much! I'm in my mid 40s. This was 35 years ago. I can't remember what I did yesterday most of the time. But every time I hear either one of those tracks, it's like mum's here again. They turn up occasionally when I need to hear them. But they also turn up sometimes when I really don't want to hear them.

I know that this probably changes dramatically from day to day, but how do those tracks make you feel?

I think it depends on what I'm doing at the time. There was a time when Phil Collins kept being played in clubs. Do you remember this?! Phil Collins remixes being played in clubs. When I was quite emotional in those situations, they would hit a lot harder. Whereas now, if I'm in B&Q and either of them comes on, it's like, "Oh, she's here with me." And it feels a lot sweeter. It feels like a little hello sometimes.

I think you're right. I've been thinking about this a lot, actually, because I wrote about it in the first newsletter that I did. Maybe these songs used to play all the time, but I wasn't paying attention. Or maybe they play more now...

Yes!

It'll be in really unsuspecting places.

Or your birthday.

Do you think that your relationship with music has changed since your mum passed away?

Yes, absolutely. But I think it's not necessarily my relationship with music that's changed, but my relationship with my feelings. So much music is raw emotions. It's also lots of other things as well, but I really think that the range of our feelings, and how open we are to feeling them, changes how the music meets us.

There was a time after my mum died where I didn't want to feel anything at all because it was overwhelming. Everything shut down, and the numbness was really there. But feeling the sound, literally through myself rather than just listening to it, that's the thing that's changed. It hits different. Even sometimes not knowing what a track is, or not having heard a single lyric, you can feel an energy in it—not wanting to become a yoga wanker in this conversation [laughs].

Death or grief changes everything. It changes how you meet everything else after that. And I always think that people are shaped more by the worst thing they've been through than the best thing they've been through.

Yeah, I agree, which is kind of annoying in a way.

Really fucking annoying! Quite rude as well, to be honest. But I think the difficult stuff we go through; you've got to learn to hold it a bit more. White knuckle for a while, don't you? Whereas the easy stuff is like, "Oh, this is nice. What's next?"

Sometimes I'll say with my friend Gen, who's also lost her mum, "We were fine before. We didn't need to become better people through this shit."

"I was functioning, okay?!" Yeah, it's wild.

It forces it on you.

Absolutely, it's that or drown, I think.

And on that note of being able to feel differently and therefore music being different, are there other artists or records that have helped you over the years to navigate grief or difficult times?

Who's helped? Techno's helped. Any music that makes me really want to move my body. I'm really shit at remembering track names. Like I watch my man, and he'll be yapping on about which tracks played and I'm like, "I've got no idea what happened tonight, but I was dancing and it was great." So, anything that really makes me move.

Dancing, it's the tonic. Anything that means my body can do what it needs to do, rather than my brain for a bit. The disappearing into yourself that can happen on a dance floor, or in a kitchen, that means that stories disappear. And there's just that presence with the body, presence with other people.

Clubbing is great, isn't it?

It is so good.

If you were to give somebody who's earlier on in their grief journey a piece of advice, or a tool that you've found helpful, what advice would you share?

Screaming in the woods is pretty good. I'm not joking. Go into the woods and have a really good scream, or a scream in the sea. Because grief has to move. It's just energy. And trying to hold it down or hold it in is not going to be your friend in the long term.

And also know that if you're not ready to feel it, you're not ready to feel it. There's no timeline on any of this shit, unfortunately. It will continue to make you cry 15 years later when you're talking about songs, or when you hear them. But know that maybe the tears stop being as horrifically painful, and in a weird way they find a little sweetness to them. Maybe, sometimes—very important to add that in. But if you can, let it move.

Welcome to My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today's newsletter will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so please consider a paid subscription for £4 per month if you're able to.

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I remember the first time the 29th of the month passed me by. In the aftermath of my mum's death on May 29th, 2020, it was like my body could feel as the 29th of the next month approached. Another month has passed. Another four weeks without her. How am I going to get through this? And then, one day, the 29th came and went. My stomach dropped when I realised and I felt guilty. But then I reminded myself of something my therapist helped me learn: sometimes my brain switches off from my grief, and that allows me to live my life.

This is something I talked about with the guest on today's My Mum Loved This Song, the importance of giving yourself grace in your grief, which sometimes means not thinking about the person you've lost. That can be hard to get your head around, but treating yourself with kindness is, in its own way, honouring your person.

Ammar Kalia is the Guardian's global music critic and the author of the 2024 novel A Person is a Prayer, an intergenerational exploration of family, grief and identity that's based on his own family's migration from India to Kenya and then the UK. He also writes for publications like The Observer, Jazzwise and Downbeat, specialising in jazz, global music and some dance music, too.

Alongside his writing, Ammar is a drummer. He's currently part of Millpool, a London-based four-part band who describe themselves as "jazz-tinged post-hardcore."

Ammar's mum Nutan passed away when he was 19. Our lovely conversation touched on the many, many gigs they went to together, how she's had an impact on Ammar's career and how wordless music can be a good choice if you need some space to think.

50 percent of all the proceeds from this week's edition will go to Cancer Research UK. If you're not a subscriber but you'd like to make a one-off payment to My Mum Loved This Song in memory of Nutan, you can do so here:

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Pictured below is Ammar and his mum at Bestival in 2012, when they went to see Stevie Wonder together. Thank you for reading, and if you know someone who might benefit from this series, please share it with them.

Who will you be remembering today? What's their name, and can you tell me a bit about them and your relationship?

My mum, Nutan Kalia. She passed away in 2013, so it's been 12 years now, which is crazy, but she had cancer for four or five years. She was diagnosed terminal when I was 14 or 15, and she was given six months to live. And then, very fortunately, she was put on an experimental drug. It wasn't a trial, but she found a professor and it prolonged her life for four years, which was amazing.

I was 19 when she died. She's a huge, huge musical influence. She was born in Kenya and moved to England in the mid '60s, when she was seven. She grew up around Motown, loved soul music. She loved Jimi Hendrix and I always remember her blasting Bob Marley in the kitchen when she was cooking. She got me really into music.

Do you think she played a big part in what you've ended up doing for work?

Definitely. She had such a stereotypically grim immigrant life. She was the eldest of three kids. They stayed with her uncle, she was in some kind of Cinderella situation, where she became the maid for this house and was made to do all the household chores. Her childhood wasn't fun, and there was the National Front and all the racism. So, she was very determined that me and my older brother would have a nice childhood and all the things that she didn't have. And as part of that, I think she'd never been to a gig until her and my dad got together, maybe in her 30s she started going to concerts.

I remember she bought tickets for us to go and see Blue because she'd heard them on the radio, and Liberty X. We also saw Prince and Stevie Wonder. I used to go to a lot of gigs with her. And as I got older, I influenced her a bit. I introduced her to Lenny Kravitz and she was like, "He's really good looking." So she was obsessed with him for a while. She definitely got me into live music and that whole experience.

Is there a particular song, record or artist that particularly reminds you of her?

Definitely Stevie Wonder. She had this real affinity for him, because they were about the same age. She grew up with him. And interestingly, she was an optometrist, so I think with him being blind there was a connection there. And she loved his virtuosity, all his storytelling. She was quite spiritual, she was really into Deepak Chopra and all that '90s New Age stuff. With Innervisions and records like that, Stevie Wonder was delving into that whole space. I think he was one of the first artists where I realised you can do so many different things in the space of a career. You can go from proper Motown to psychedelic soul, straight R&B.

But the one song's probably "Golden Lady," which I got tattooed on my arm for her after she died. She liked how it climbs and climbs. It's got such a good build and shape to it. It's always reminded me of her. Every time it comes on, I think, "She's the golden lady." It's a nice, emotional, kind of euphoric song as well. I've played it in bands, too, and it's very hard to play. It's got six or seven key changes, so many chords. It's nuts.

Do you have a picture in your mind if you think of your mum and that song?

I don't know if it was one that she listened to in the kitchen. I'd often associate her with that scenario, but I think this one, we had conservatory at home. She loved sitting in there because it was a nice little sun trap. I feel like that's probably the space that she would listen to a song like that, quite peacefully. She used to journal a lot and write, so maybe she'd be scribbling something while listening to it, probably a kind of self-reflective moment.

How does hearing that song make you feel?

I was thinking about this, and how when you first lose someone, especially a parent or a mum—I was a big mummy's boy—it's so visceral and painful that the sensory things that give you access to them are quite precious, because they're painful. There's something about that connection being sad, and it's complicated. So it'd almost be like picking a scab. There was something painful about listening to that song, but I would still want to listen to it.

And now I think, 12 years on, I really love when it comes on the radio or something. I can feel the poignancy sometimes, but also just listen. There'll be the odd moment where it's a sunny day, maybe I put on the whole record and listen to start to finish. I might not even think of her that much, which feels like a weird thing to say, but something that I've learned is that you've got to give yourself the grace and sometimes not think about those people. You know, forget their death anniversaries and stuff like that, but there's moments where a song comes on and you're like, "I'm gonna have a little moment." But otherwise I'm living my life and she's wherever she is, and it's a nice moment of connection. I'm grateful to have something I can still access that through.

Do you think your relationship with music has changed since she passed away?

I think I've just got older. I think with everyone who's lost a parent, especially at a younger age—or at any time—you think there's so much you could have learned. It's part of my work now, so there's a richness and depth to it. And there's stuff that I'd love to talk to her about, like the artists she liked, but also artists she might not have heard of. I still get the same sense of wonder from that.

If anything, when you're affected by a loss or some kind of trauma, it can open you up to the world a bit more, or give you a bit more empathy. I'll listen to Indian classical music, for instance, which is something that my mum didn't really listen to much, but I feel a kind of weird, poignant connection to our shared ancestry. I didn't have that when I was younger or when she was alive. But I feel that more and more, so there's interesting and quite beautiful connections.

If she were around today, which artists would you like to talk to her about? Who would she like?

I got into jazz around the time that she was dying, so I'd love to introduce her to that side. Like John Coltrane, but I think she'd kind of hate it. And then she'd be like, "Oh, this is interesting."

Also club music, she loved a dance. Back then I was going to Oceana or listening to "Gangnam Style" at Fresher's Week or something horrible. I think she'd love soulful house music. A big Theo Parrish set. And clubs, as a whole thing that she never experienced. So that would have been fun. Ibiza, maybe!

Are there artists or records that have helped you to navigate grief?

So many. I mean, the first two Coldplay albums. I'll be a Coldplay apologist for those early records. They're really good, but they're just so sad. And sometimes, in the early stages of grief, that was quite nice. Or Radiohead, that classic sad sound. And then James Blake, that kind of continuum to be very introspective.

Jazz as well. Blue Train, or Ballads by Coltrane which is a beautiful, wistful, sort of romantic record. And recently that Kelly Moran album, Moves in the Field, I really, really like that. I was listening to that loads. And Bill Evans. Piano records are nice as well. I've found wordless music gives me space to think.

And how do you like to honour your mum in your day-to-day?

It comes back to what I was saying about the kindness that I have to myself to be like, I don't need to think about her all the time. Then it's nice to think about her in certain ways, like the pictures I have around. Her own mum died relatively young, and I can't remember where it came from, but if we ever found a 5p on the floor, she thought it was a sign from her mum. So now if I ever find a 5p I'm like, "Hey mum." I always keep it.

And then sometimes I think to myself, mum would say: "Have a glass of wine. Put the music on. Just relax, it's not worth it." Or, "Just pay extra and do the thing. Get a cab." That was very much her vibe. So, sometimes she helps me justify frivolousness!

My mum was like that, too.

I think that voice is great because that's when you know they're there with you. It's not just your conscience, that's their presence.

Yeah, I struggled at the beginning with feeling so disconnected and not being able to talk to her. And then I remember realising that I always know what she would say. And that, in itself, is that connection with her.

It's a weird thing because it's important to acknowledge that it's objectively horrible. You'd give anything to have them back, and it's also remarkable how strong people are. You know, that you can be like, "I'm gonna live my life. That's what they want me to do, and they're there." And that's just what we do. We get on with it and honour them and keep going. That's the beauty of it as well.

If you could give someone who's early on in their grief journey some advice or a particular tool, what do you think it would be?

Time is really important. Be nice to yourself as much as you can. Be messy if you need to be messy. You don't have to be put together. Lean on your friends. Whatever you can do to just get through. Because you're head down, it's miserable, you keep going, keep going, and it does slowly shift. It does get a little bit different.

I remember getting to six years in, looking back and realising I did feel different. Then ten years in. Maybe it's not good to put a goal on it, but it does just change. And the more that you can just get through, it does get better. And it does make you stronger, and it informs your life—in beautiful, meaningful ways as well. It's made me a much more creative person, for instance. Time does heal, it's important to embrace that.

Ammar's novel, A Person is a Prayer, is out now

Welcome to My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today's newsletter will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so please consider a paid subscription if you're able to.

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As a rule, I would say I'm a fairly organised person who's not forgetful, doesn't lose things and has reasonable coordination. Am I tempting fate by writing this? Perhaps, but I'm doing so to say: I can always tell when my grief is getting more, well, griefy (if you know, you know—I've yet to find the right word for this snowballing feeling) because I become clumsy. I drop things, walk into walls, forget things, feel intense physical fatigue and generally like my head is stuffed with cotton wool. It took me years to make the connection between these very physical symptoms and the fact I was grieving. And one of the people who helped me figure it out was today's guest, Meghan Riordan Jarvis.

Meghan is a trauma therapist, author, podcast host and consultant who has decades of professional experience in grief and loss. You can read more about her work in the interview below, but one of her many areas of expertise is how grief can affect our brain and nervous system, and how we feel and experience that loss in our physical bodies as a result. Through Meghan's work I've learned to be able to observe and listen to those symptoms in my own body, knowing when to slow down and be extra gentle with myself. I'd really recommend Meghan's podcast episode with The Grief Gang's Amber Jeffrey (whose contribution to My Mum Loved This Song you can read here) if you want to learn more.

Already an expert in her world of work, Meghan thought she was well-prepared should the time come to navigate her own trauma. Then, when her parents passed away in quick succession, she faced the realisation that "you don't get to skip your own experience with loss."

Going into starting My Mum Loved This Song was a bit of a daunting experience. I knew I wanted to have these conversations, but would anyone want to have them with me?! This interview was the first one I did, and I'm so grateful to Meghan for her time and her illuminating knowledge.

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I hope you'll find something in here that helps. Thank you for reading.

Can you tell me a bit about yourself and your work?

I am a grief expert. I'm a trauma therapist, so I'm trained in lots of body-centred therapies to help move the energy of trauma through the body, and I use that through the lens of grief and loss. I've been in private practice in DC for 23 years, focusing on people who have significant symptoms that make living life hard, such as a hard time sleeping or eating, but also often their frame of mind, like not being able to see the world as an open place full of goodness.

I've done a lot of training, and I have a couple of master's degrees, and I thought I knew so much about grief and loss that as my life included more grief and loss, I'd be able to navigate it with a higher level of skill than other people. And while that was true to some degree, you don't get to skip your own experience with loss. My dad died in 2017 after a year-long battle with cancer, and then my mum died two years later, suddenly in her sleep when we were on vacation together.

With my dad's death, we knew it was coming. So because it was anticipated, it was more something that I participated in. He lived a distance from me, but I was able to travel to see him. And so every weekend I visited, my brain was learning. Oh, he is losing his life. He was smaller and less able to get around and less well. He progressively got worse until he died. It was really hard and sad, but it didn't feel like a tragedy. My dad was 80, and he was also a person who was in my life, but I didn't centre my life around him.

And then in 2019 my mum died suddenly. She had a short illness. What we thought was a stomach bug, I now think was a bleeding ulcer that went undetected. (Which I don't blame anyone for, it's very difficult to detect that.) But my experience with my mother's death was totally and wholly different and more like the experience that my clients have, in that I was completely overwhelmed by real terror in my body. In the instant that I understood that she'd died, I had strong ruminations, repetitive thoughts. The thought was that it was my fault that she had died, and it was relentless. And because I'm a therapist, and because I've sat with hundreds of clients who've had those experiences, I was like, "Oh, I know what this is." It's humbling to sit inside the space that your clients have really struggled in.

So, a couple of things about that. One, I knew that it could be okay. So even though it was terrifying, I had a crack of hope. I knew this was likely PTSD, probably something I wasn't going to be able to treat on my own. The thing that was miraculous was that because I'd been helping people in this space, I knew who to call and how to get help.

That's a real passion project of mine. There's grief that resolves on its own, that's hard to navigate but that you can build muscles to learn to carry. And then there's grief that needs treatment, and it's very difficult. We have some diagnoses over here like prolonged grief disorder. It's less about the length of time and more about the disruption to your central nervous system and whether you're able to recover. I could not recover on my own. I needed inpatient treatment and help, and then when I got out, I was like, wow, there's some stuff we do not talk about accurately. It was like reading books about a foreign country and then finally visiting there and being like, "they're not describing this mountain range correctly."

When I came out of treatment, I spent a lot of time reading. The way the brain works in trauma, for a lot of people, they can't read. But I couldn't stop reading. I read close to 200 books. And really, what I was looking for was somebody who'd written down all the things I felt needed to be said more plainly and concretely and with more real instruction. And, of course, there was nothing. So, I wrote a memoir about my personal experience, and then I wrote a clinical book, which is called Can Anyone Tell Me?: Essential Questions about Grief and Loss. It asks: Can anyone tell me why I can't eat? Can anyone tell me why I can't sleep? Can anyone tell me why I think that butterfly is my mum? Can anyone tell me why smart people say such stupid shit? It's really the whole gamut of what happens.

My mum died six months before Covid, so I took a bunch of time off to do treatment. I barely went back to work, and then Covid shut us all down. And so that's when I started writing, lecturing, talking and having a more instructional platform. I wanted less bullshit about grief and loss, less of the soft voices to make you feel better and holding space. Less of that and more like, it's kind of a street fight. You're gonna have to come up with some skills. Try it. If it doesn't work, leave it there and find something else.

I teach a curriculum for clinicians and in corporate settings called The Grief Mentor Method. It's built from six core concepts. And those concepts are everything anyone ever told me helped them in grief and loss, on a menu. And music is one of those. One of the things we talk about is the idea that in grief, there's novelty, there's this terrible change process that nobody wants. You've lost something you can't live without, but you must figure out how to live without it. And the novelty is the pain. Your brain doesn't know how to do this because it's never done it before. And so we discuss, what are the supportive practices? What are the things that can support you in your grief? And music is always one.

Who would you like to talk about today and can you tell me a bit about them?

My dad was a big opera fan and classical music fan, and when I was studying in high school I found music helped me study. So I had a period where my dad was giving me cassette tapes of classical music, which I really loved. But the person who really has such an imprint in my heart with music is my mum. There's so many stories.

I have five brothers and sisters. We lived rurally, and so we always were in the car listening to the radio. My mum liked a certain kind of genre of singer-songwriter music, and so I have a lot of that in my blood—her driving and singing these ballad-type songs, which I would say were in line with her personality. But as I got older, my brothers—who played guitar and sang, and I sang—we were sharing back with her music that we liked. And my mother became obsessed with Pink Floyd. She was, you know, sturdy shoes, sweater, if you think of a little librarian-type. Someone you'd assume didn't swear and probably went to church daily. She fit right into that lane, until Pink Floyd. When my parents built their house, at the time it was very cutting-edge, they built speakers into every room so she could listen to them. So many times I would drive up to her house, and you could feel the vibrations in the driveway from the music.

It's one of those things I just love, because it's so incongruous yet completely true. I think she began listening to Pink Floyd because my brothers liked Pink Floyd (also Jethro Tull, but really Pink Floyd). And then she just was like, "Oh, this is the greatest band that ever was." My family also has a deep passion for Crowded House. My oldest brother fell in love with their music. The lead singer is just an incredible musical artist. There's a lot of threads of that band in our lives. My husband and I even met at a Crowded House show here in DC. My mum also had a couple of total favourite Crowded House songs. She didn't know the names either, so she would say, "Is this the blue dress song?" ["Into Temptation"] Her joy about songs that she loved was so kid-like. I didn't get to really see that side of her when I was a kid, but when I was older, maybe when we didn't need her to be so instructional, she really showed us that side with her love of music.

I love that you could just hear it booming from the house.

Totally, driving up the driveway, you could feel it underneath you.

What's your mum's name?

Mary.

Thank you. Is there a particular Pink Floyd song you associate with Mary?

It was The Wall. So not really a song, the whole thing. Maybe it would be "Comfortably Numb," but it's more that she would turn it on and you had to sit there until the album was over. And it wasn't a background thing, she had the music on loud. Plus, she wasn't a huge fan of everything that they did, it was The Wall more than anything.

If you hear that music now, how does it make you feel?

Well, I don't listen to Pink Floyd. I don't dislike them, but I don't have a single album. So it always catches me somewhere. There are some things, like my mum wore a popular perfume and my dad wore a pretty popular cologne. And if I smell those things, it can really hurt. It can viscerally bring them back in a way that is like, my body misses them. With music it's more like it brings back a memory. Instead of a visceral memory, it's something that's in my head. It's a little titrated. So, when I hear a Pink Floyd song, or when I listen to Crowded House, it has more of a sweetness to it than some of the other visceral experiences of being pulled into the missing of them.

Also, my mum used to do this thing where she would confuse the words shit-faced and bullshit. And she would say, "Oh, I went to the library and I was so shit-faced that they didn't have my book." And then everyone would laugh, and she'd be like, "Oh, that's the drunk one." And then she would laugh at herself. She had an incredible laugh. She would laugh so hard and then you'd have to wait minutes for her to finish what she was saying, because she couldn't talk through her own laughter, which is a family trait. There's something about the fact that she loved Pink Floyd, which is not what you'd think when you met her. You would think it was a joke. And I just loved that. I love saying to people, "This is one of my mum's favourite songs." And people being like, "this is Pink Floyd's The Wall." I know! She loved it. Listened to it every day.

When you think of that memory, do you see her in a specific room in the house?

In the kitchen, in the evening after dinner. She'd listen to music when she was cleaning up. TV didn't play a big role in my life, so there wasn't one in the kitchen but she did have this incredible stereo system, one of those multi-CD players. Standing in the kitchen after dinner, tidying up and rocking out to this heavy, trippy music. That's how I think of her.

How do you honour your parents in your day-to-day?

I talk about them a lot, and I talk to my kids about them a lot. I openly grieve them, which keeps them on my mind and in my heart and consciousness. In terms of music, I think about how my mum loved music and shared it with us and made that a norm. When I met my husband, I had like 1,000 albums, and he had like 1,000 albums, so we had to get a big apartment because we had so much music. If I meet people who have no albums, I don't understand it. There's so much music in our house, and there's so much opportunity to do music with my kids. I think that's partly her legacy. It really came from her.

I think it's the same for me. If I'm ever lucky enough to have a family, I'd like to pass it down, too.

It's so fun. We drove across the country during Covid, and our kids were listening to Taylor Swift, Ariana Grande and Meghan Trainor. That's fine, I don't have anything against it, but I was like, now I'm going to introduce you to a band called Squeeze. Because we were in the car all day long, to have a container to be like, "This band is called Duran Duran, you're gonna love them." That was so fun. And it is really fun, one of my kids is like, "I'm gonna go upstairs and listen to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours." And I'm like, mmhmm! I taught you that. I gave you that. I'm so happy.

If you could share one tool for people who are grieving, what would it be?

I teach about this, so I know that this isn't true for everybody, but for me it's creating a narrative that's an ongoing story about what it's like to live—both with and without—my parents. And understanding that it's a perpetual line, of ebbs and flows, is really important and so I do that for myself. I write about it a lot, but I've also identified the people I can talk to about it a lot. It's not everybody.

I think about my grief symptoms almost like an allergic reaction. When there's a flare-up, I have people that I think of as being like the EpiPen. I reach out and they give me a little shot. "Of course, you're sad, of course, it's hard." That connection is so critical because it's easy to feel isolated in grief. Isolated is different to lonely. Lonely is like, I don't have as much connection as I would like. Isolation is when you feel cut-off from the rest of the world.

When you tell people it's going to be a hard week, or this anniversary is coming up or I have this meeting and I wish I could talk to my mum about it, you invite yourself into your reality a bit more. I can't call my mum, but I can call other people and tell them how much I wish I could call her. I have a thread with my friend and business partner Julianne and it's just like, "it is so stupid that my mum is dead." And she'll write back: "So stupid. Dumbest thing ever. Zero stars. Don't recommend." You know? And I don't even really tell her what I'm upset about, I just get the validation that she knows. She knows whatever it is that's happening, I wish my mum was here.

Welcome to My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today's newsletter will be donated to Cancer Research UK, so please consider a paid subscription if you're able to.

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"It's about grabbing the days as they come and remembering people in the fondest way you can."

Today's interview is with Danny Wright, a freelance music journalist who's written for publications like the Guardian, Crack Magazine, The Quietus, Vice and London in Stereo.

Danny and I have known each other since we were both writing for London in Stereo (RIP, shout out Jess and Dave!), and as soon as I had the idea for My Mum Loved This Song I knew I wanted him to be involved. In November, 2020, Danny published a piece on Vice titled " Without Live Music, I Wouldn’t Have Been Able to Overcome Grief." Deep in lockdown and almost six months into life without my mum, his words about the catharsis that live shows offer him helped me make sense of my own yearning for the return of live music experiences.

"Being at a gig is so much more than watching the people on the stage, or even really the music itself," he wrote. "It's a cathartic experience. It allows you to breathe again and feel the joy of being with people who make you happy, or be out in the world, surrounded by a crowd, but at the same time, alone (I love a solo gig). It's getting a 6 AM bus home with friends after a five-hour Four Tet set as the fuzzy morning light rises between buildings. Or watching Janelle Monae crowd surfing over the Roundhouse and smiling at my wife, just as I was realising she was going to be my wife."

Five years earlier, Danny wrote a piece for the Guardian, about six months after the death of his dad, Clive. He hadn't set out to publish it or even pitch it, but, like me, he was getting things out of his head and onto the page in an attempt to make sense of his grief. "Death with dignity: how music eases grief's deep ache" would become one of the pieces he's most proud of. Since then, Danny told me, he's continued "thinking about the relationship between music and grief and loss. And not even the grief of it all, but the hopeful side of music and how that can pull you through."

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Thank you for reading, here's my conversation with Danny Wright.

I'd love to hear about your dad. What's his name, and can you tell me about him and your relationship?

He was called Clive Beverly Wright, and he always hated his middle name! He never told me about it, I saw it on his passport. It was my gran, who I never got to meet, but her favourite singer was called Beverly. He was a headmaster at a school in Liverpool, where I grew up. He was quite strict, but also very loving and inspired me in many ways. I love sport now because of him. We used to play tennis and football together.

I'd always thought we had completely different musical tastes. He liked '60s music, and never really got into more modern music. Even as he grew older, he stuck with what he liked when he was young. But as I've looked back on it—especially with the song I'm going to talk about—there was a lot that we shared. I remember one year he asked me for the Shania Twain album for Christmas. I was 17, thought I was way too cool for school, and I was like, "Why the hell do you want that?!" Now I realise he was bang on the money!

We had a great upbringing and a really loving family. We were very lucky. We went on holiday all the time in a caravan across France, the Cotswolds and Cornwall. Apart from me, my whole family are teachers, so we'd go away for four weeks in the summer. We were always traveling together in the caravan, playing tennis, eating pizzas. When you lose someone, you get to reflect a bit more. I always kicked up a fuss about those holidays, especially as I was getting older, and now I remember them so fondly.

I had a similar thing, actually. We've got a static caravan in North Wales and I went through a phase of thinking it was so boring. For a long time there was no internet, and I got to the age of texting boys and I couldn't text them when I was in the caravan! But now it's my most treasured place, and I'm so lucky and grateful that I had those times with my family.

I'm sure my kids will be the same. I think I'm taking them on these amazing holidays, and they'll be like, "Oh, it's so embarrassing going on holiday with dad."

What's the record you'd like to talk about today?

So I had this memory that my first ever gig—and I've told this to a lot of people—was The Kinks in Southport. I couldn't remember the year, but I knew it was when I was 10 or 12 years old. So I was like, my dad made my first gig cool because he took me to The Kinks when I didn't have any music taste. And then last night, I wanted to find out what the actual date was, and it just wasn't anywhere on the internet. And I found a wiki-gigs thing for The Kinks and there was nothing for Southport in the '90s! Then I went down a wormhole and found this guy chatting about following The Kinks round in the '90s, and that a gig in Southport was announced just a few days before. So it's not on any posters or any T-shirts or anything. It just happened. And it actually did happen, I was worried I'd made up this memory! But yes, November 20th, 1994 in Southport Theatre. If it was up to me, my first gig would have been Fun Lovin' Criminals four years later, so I'm glad my dad made my first gig The Kinks.

My song is "Days" by The Kinks, which I genuinely love as a song, beside the context, the history and what it means to me. It's such a beautiful, melancholic song, but also really hopeful at the same time. The Kinks were one of my dad's favourite bands. When he died, and my mum left me in charge of picking songs to play at his funeral, it just seemed so apt. It's about grabbing the days as they come and remembering people in the fondest way you can. It just seemed perfect.

It makes me feel a lot of things when I hear it now. I don't listen to it very often because it feels quite heavy. If it came up on Spotify, I think it'd kind of strike right at my heart. But I still love listening to it in certain moments, remembering him.

What's the picture that comes to mind if you think about your dad listening to music?

We had a record player at home, and he had a lot of records, so it would be him putting those on. If people were coming round and he wanted to impress them, he'd put a record on and set the mood. But I think it's our holidays most of all. I specifically remember those little tape cases you'd fill to go on holiday, and he would have them all set out. Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits was a constant. He drove from our house in Liverpool, down to Dover to cross into France, about a seven-hour drive. There was a lot of me requesting songs, my dad choosing songs, my mum choosing songs. That's what I always picture when we're listening to music, all of us in the car together with my brother, too.

And how do you think your relationship with music has changed since your dad passed away?

So in my day job I'm a copywriter, and he had no idea what that was really. When I was a music journalist, it was when I was published in the Guardian that he understood what I was doing. He was very proud of me, and told me how proud he was when that type of thing happened. When he died, I was going through his stuff and I found a Twitter account that he'd started just to follow me. That was one of the things that really choked me up. He was always vocal about how much he cared and how proud he was, but that kind of stuff was heartbreaking, but also really special. I was thinking back to some of my Tweets and wondering what the hell he would have thought of them all! But yeah, that was a nice moment.

After he died, I knew I needed music to help me through. But I also felt a bit guilty. A month after he died, and I'd come back to London and left mum on her own, I was like, "Should I be going to a gig? How should I react? How should I deal with this? What is the right way? What is the right thing to do? What is the right way to act?" I went to a gig and it lifted me up so much. I didn't feel guilty because I knew he would have told me to go. If he could have spoken to me, he would have said, "Just go, feel better and do the thing you love." And so I think that's one way that music has helped, and how my relationship with it has changed a bit. I think as a younger person, I used to listen to sadder music when I was sad. I wallowed in it. Now I've gone the other way, and I try to listen to music that will lift me out of those things. There might be an element of sadness too, but I listen to optimistic, hopeful music that points to the future.

I think there's something about when you've been through something that difficult, obviously you do have to sit in it sometimes, but you also have to get on with your day and survive it. I definitely went through a stage of listening to really sad tunes. And now I don't think I listen to any, really.

There's also the realisation that, more than any other art form, music is the thing that you can pinpoint to loads of different memories in your life. You know, you don't think, "Oh, that film was out at the time that thing happened." It's always a song or an album that you've been listening to that can transport you back. The older you get, you realise you can't really control it, because it could be a song that happened to be playing on the radio that didn't mean anything to you, but now it's there as part of your memory.

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What music do you think do you think your dad would enjoy today?

Probably Olivia Rodrigo. He loved Jake Bugg, that traditional, bluesy music, so stuff like that he would always listen to. I think he'd like Arctic Monkeys. There was a lot of stuff I thought he'd like and I'd play it to him and he'd be like, "No." My mum was more the person who'd walk past my room and she'd say, "I love that song!" I'd note it down each time over a few weeks or months and then make her a CD to play in the car. But my dad would always take the piss and say, "I think the CD is scratched, that sounds crap."

That's a real dad joke, that. How do you like to honour his memory today, musically?

I think there's songs that, either the feel of them or the emotion of them, make you sit with those feelings. It might not be specifically about my dad, but a maelstrom of different things. My mum's not very well at the moment, either. So, the Cameron Winter album, Heavy Metal, I've listened to that so much over the last few months. There are lines that make me think of my dad, lines that made me think of different situations I'm in, lines that made me think of the kids and [my wife] Chloe.

I think because it's ten years later now, it's not so much one song that will make me think of my dad, but the songs that have that emotive feel to them. I think that's a lot of what I've done with music over the last ten years. It gives a shape to those emotions. When they're just swirling around in your head, putting your headphones in and listening to music allows you to have a bit of focus, and helps you express yourself. I think writing that piece in the Guardian when I did, it had been six months since he died and I didn't really know what to do with a lot of things I was thinking about. So I wrote it all down. It really helped sort my head out a bit. I didn't even know if it would be published, I wrote it without a pitch.

If you could share a tool with somebody that's earlier on in their journey of navigating grief, what advice do you think you would give, as someone that's further down the line?

There's no wrong answer. If you find something, do it. Obviously being selfish isn't a good thing, but I think in those moments, you can be selfish, because people know what you're going through. Listening to music, or going out, not going out, whatever you want to do at that time, people will understand. Just do that thing that feels right in the moment—and find the song that will help.

Welcome to My Mum Loved This Song, a series of conversations about music and grief.

50 percent of proceeds from today's newsletter will be donated to Anthony Nolan in memory of Poppy Chancellor, so please consider a paid subscription if you're able to.

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I am so honoured that my first guest on My Mum Loved This Song is Amber Jeffrey, founder of The Grief Gang. Online grief communities have been so important for me since my mum died, and The Grief Gang, which launched in September, 2019, was one of the first I came across. What began as a space for Amber to navigate her own grief has blossomed into a career that spans a multi-series podcast, in-person events, mentoring, workshops and much more.

The Grief Gang is one of the first things I would recommend to someone grieving. Amber described starting the platform as a "bat signal," trying to find other people who had also lost their mum and who understood what she was going through. There's almost 65,000 of us in The Grief Gang community now, and let me tell you, in an experience that can feel unbearably lonely, Amber's work makes so many of us feel seen and heard.

I've always admired Amber's ability to be hilarious alongside being unbelievably compassionate and candid with the community she's built. You'll see her openness and her humour in the following interview, during which I learned that her silly side definitely comes from her mum, Sue.

"Grief is for life," Amber told me. "I think the way to manage that is to speak your person's name. Speak about the things that made them who they are, and the things that made your relationship what it is. I'm very fortunate to have meaningful conversations in so many different forums and formats. I get to learn about so many amazing people's loved ones. I get to hear the things that put smiles on their faces, and the memories that make them laugh or cry or feel really connected. To have that every single day is such a gift."

Amber has chosen Anthony Nolan as her charity for this edition, a vital organisation dedicated to helping people with blood cancers and disorders. I'll be donating 50 percent of any proceeds from today's newsletter in honour of Amber's friend Poppy Chancellor, who passed away in September, 2023.

Poppy's platform The Griefcase was another that really helped me early in my grief. She's someone I deeply respected, even from afar. Poppy helped so many people find the words, even in the throes of an experience that can feel impossible to convey.

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Thank you for reading, here's my conversation with Amber…

Who is the person that you've chosen to remember today? What is their name, and can you tell me a bit about them and your relationship?

Of course, I'm bringing my mum, Sue Valentine. If someone asks me to describe her, I say, "she was crazy!" She'd always say, "Is that all I am to you?!" But she was crazy in all the best ways—chaotic and calm all at once. I don't think being a mum was her lifelong dream, but she was so good at it. She lived and breathed for me and my brother.

Since she died, I feel I've gotten to know her even better. How she mothered, her values, the lessons she instilled in us. She wanted us to believe that we could do anything, which is something I don't think she applied to herself as much. I was 19 when she died, and at the time I don't think I really absorbed that, but now, in her absence, I think that's what's spurred me on. With my career, being self-employed and running my own business, I would never have done this without her encouragement.

She loved slapstick humour. She loved silliness, like people falling over. I love that too—I'll never be too old to love a farting video. She laughed at her own jokes before she even finished the joke. As serious and crazy and uptight she could sometimes be, she loved to let loose and have a good time. And she was community personified. I think that was one of the most amazing teachings she gave me, maybe not even consciously, but to really give to your community. What you put into your community is what you will get out. At home we had an open-door policy. My friends, her friends, my brother's friends, we were the house to go to. Our house was tiny but we'd all pile into the living room, almost sitting on each other's laps. But it didn't matter because we were together, and I love that. I'm happiest when I've got my dining table full of friends and family. I feel really close to her when doing that.

Is there a particular song or record or artist that really reminds you of your mum?

Lots of Motown. She was a proper soul head. And an artist was definitely Whitney Houston. I grew up on Whitney. When she died, my mum was in mourning. It was like the queen had died. We had "My Love Is Your Love" as her funeral song. That's not my song for this, but it deserved an honourable mention. My mum died of a sudden heart attack at 51, so there'd been no conversations about this prior. But she'd once made this passing comment, maybe over dinner: "If I was to die, my song to you and your brother is 'My Love Is Your Love.'" I'd heard that song throughout the years, but then it had this whole other meaning. It's the perfect song to encapsulate mum's love for me and my brother.

The song I've chosen, though, has an interesting story. It really pulls me to my mum. I love connecting love songs to grief. Some of history's greatest love songs might be for romantic love, but they're so applicable to platonic love and family love as well. If you dare to listen to it through a different perspective, you realise some of these love songs can apply to the love between a parent and child. My song is Diana Ross's "Ain't No Mountain High Enough"—the full six-minute version. It was always in the background of my childhood, and the lyrics feel like something she would say to me and my brother. It's the devotion in it.

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In my group circles, we always have a song week. This year I've had a few staple songs I would share, and I wanted to expand. I usually wait until the end to see which song is speaking to me, and a month or so ago I thought of this song. I shared it with the group and it felt really good.

And then here's where the plot thickens. A few days after, I decided to go through some letters that my dad gifted me a few years ago. For context, these letters are between my mum and dad from back in the late '80s, early '90s. My mum was born and raised in Norfolk, and my dad lived in Berkshire. So they were long-distance for a while, and pen pals for about a year. The letters—there's hundreds of them, it's mental—had been sat under my bed. It wasn't something that was too painful, I just never got round to it. But I started reading them around Mother's Day.

My mum was very soppy in these letters. (It's so interesting reading letters between your parents, especially when there's been divorce at play, being like, "Oh, you actually liked each other at the time!") So I opened up the first letter, and she was so gushy, like "I love you. I miss you. I can't wait to be in your arms." And then as I'm reading on, she goes: "The radio has just started playing a song that encapsulates how I feel. It's Diana Ross, 'Ain't No Mountain High Enough.'" And she starts writing out the lyrics, "No wind, no rain / Nor winter's cold / Can stop me, babe." I was literally like… You are joking me. I'd never really shared what that song meant to me. Then sharing it in the group, and then to see that letter. It solidified that, yes, this song means a lot to her and to me. It's one of my favourite songs. Sometimes I sing, sometimes I cry, but I love that the same song can evoke such a different emotion in me.

Wow. You know, before my mum died, I wouldn't have considered myself to be spiritual, I'd never really given stuff like that any thought. But now, sometimes things happen, and they happen for a reason. Your mum made you read that letter that day.

Of all the chances. It was like she was pinging me, you know? Get the letters out, choose that one, and it's this lovely guidance. As I was reading it, I literally laughed.

When it comes to spirituality myself, I never impose it on other people in my work. But in my own life, or when others share stories like this, I just think, "Oh come on guys. It's right in front of you." Don't try and make it logical, just believe in, I don't know, some magic. I love to believe that my mum is on side, playing these weird and wacky games with me.

So when you hear "Ain't No Mountain High Enough," I'm sure it will make you feel different ways, different days. But is there a particular picture that comes to mind?

Like I said, my mum was a proper soul head. In her later years, she had a friend back in Yarmouth who ran his own soul network radio station, a bit of a pirate station. He'd be on at 5 PM most days. She was an iPad mum, you know, fingers and thumbs everywhere. And she'd be in the kitchen with this iPad blasting his station.

So when I think about that song, I see her stood by the window with her iPad, swaying like she always did, even without music. She used to say it was the sea girl in her. She'd probably be watching the dog in the garden, swaying, clapping her hands at random times, completely offbeat. And then I'd probably try to get in there to get a packet of crisps or something, and she'd grab me and say, "Oh, dance with your mummy!" She'd always say that, "dance with me!"

Just a regular summer weekday evening. I'm seeing it in the summer. She's probably got some Barefoot Rose on the go. Oh god, that stuff is piss wine! Yeah, a perfect summer's evening with that song playing, that's what I see.

That's such a lovely image. Thank you for sharing. Do you think that your relationship with music has changed since she died?

Definitely, music is integral to my day-to-day. And I think I've only really realised that in recent years, and maybe since my friend Poppy died. Every day has music.

My partner works in an office, but when he's home, he laughs because I've got a speaker on my desk right in front of my face literally blaring. That's how I work, it gets me into a flow state. It's like a heartbeat. First thing in the morning, in the shower—boom, boom, boom.

I love it for how it makes me feel, and how it connects me to the people I've lost. It's the easiest, quickest way for me to connect with my mum, with Poppy, with anyone. If I feel disconnected, I know the songs to go for.

And if Sue were with us now, is there any new music you think she would love?

Well, she loved Adele. Before she died, "When We Were Young" had just come out and she really loved it. That was another song I was toying with for today. So I think she'd have loved the 31 album.

As for newer music, the thing that's coming to my mind is Lola Young's "Messy," probably because of all the swearing. She loved to swear. I also think we would've really bonded over Cleo Sol. Her music is absolutely soul-cleansing for me, and she's seeped her way into all of us—my brother loves her, too. You know, she's got that neo soul vibe.

I've also got really into Self Esteem. The storytelling is phenomenal. I think mum would've appreciated that kind of feminine rage. Artists like that would definitely pique her interest—go on girls!

Playlist: My Mum Loved This Song

How do you like to honour your mum's memory in your day-to-day?

I think there's so much we do subconsciously to honour the people we've lost. It's something I love exploring in my groups. I think it's often the small things.

It might sound silly, but I will never drink a tea brand other than Yorkshire Tea. And that's my mum. I would never drink a PG Tips or a Tetley. Also things like having a good meal. My mum wasn't exactly a culinary genius. She knew how to do some dishes and do them really well. When I cook, I really enjoy the process and the act of sitting down together. In the summer, we only ate outside. It was always about being together.

Honouring her, for me, is being in community—friends, family, everyone together. That's what she did, she was very inclusive. I just want everyone together all at the same time. That's joy.

And in my day-to-day, it's not taking life too seriously. Everything's so tense in our world, and sometime's it's just having a giggle. When I'm at my silliest, I feel really connected to her. Life's short. Eat the cake. Have the laugh. Have a good time. You know, we're all here on borrowed time.

You dedicate your time to helping others navigate the chaotic rollercoaster of grief. What's one tool, music-related or not, that's helped you over the years that you'd like to share with the people reading this?

Music is a huge tool for me. But also the continuous journey of finding ways to connect with my mum and lost loved ones, and continuing our relationship and realising that I do still have a mum. She's not here, but we still have a relationship, and it's reciprocal. She gives to me, I give to her. And still being on that active quest. Feeding that is one of my greatest tools.

It looks different for everyone, but I'd say: it's okay to keep doing the things that connected you. And actually not feeling limited by that, too. There's new experiences I've had where I've felt her there, or I've known we'd have done it together. Sometimes I push myself outside my comfort zone, while feeling like she's on side and we may be doing this together.

Continue that bond. And I know that's hard, and it can take time to really believe that and claim that for yourself. But if you want that, it's still there for you. I always say I'm in conversation with my mum. It's been nearly nine years, and we're still in conversation.

Anyway, hi! My Mum Loved This Song is going to be a series of conversations with some very wonderful people, where we chat about grief and music and how the two intersect. But before we get going I thought it would make sense to write something just from me. I've been wanting to do something like this for a while, but since the beginning of the year I found that this idea floating around in my busy head began to feel like more of a necessity.

On January 9th (thanks, Goodreads) I finished reading a book by Freya North called The Unfinished Business of Eadie Browne. I'd originally bought it as a holiday read, drawn to the bright cover and the part of the blurb that told of the protagonist being "swept along" by the "dizzying euphoria of rave counterculture" that was Manchester in the 1980s. As a University of Manchester alumna, former Fallowfield resident and dance music enthusiast, all the book's talk of ecstasy, "the Haç" and Platt Fields Park drew me straight in like a magpie. Sure, I lived in Manchester more than 20 years after Eadie Browne did, but my nostalgic imagination saw so much of my Manchester in the pages of the book.

But the thing that struck me most about Eadie Browne is her curious pastime. In the book, Eadie grows up in a small garden city where there's not much to do, and at school she's considered a bit of an oddball. She also grows up in a house which backs onto a cemetery. When people at school are unkind, Eadie takes herself to the cemetery for solace, forming deep relationships with the people there. That includes the people that work there, but also the people buried there.

She comes to find that a cemetery is perhaps the most peaceful place there is to be. A place made up of so many lives that lived in so many disparate periods of time. A place of reflection and quietness. It made me think about the cemetery where my mum's parents are buried. I hadn't been back there since my nanny's inscription was added to the headstone, but I went there two days after I finished the book. This is what I wrote:

"It's January 11th, a weird time of year where it's dark and cold, and you're wishing you were still on holiday while also contemplating the kind of year you want to have. This year I feel overwhelmed by that, and like I just want to be quiet and slow and cosy. The weather today was beautiful. Very cold, almost freezing, but the skies were blue and the pale winter sun shone all day.

The church where my grandparents are buried is also the church where my mum first got married. It's tucked away down a narrow country road in Kent, and if you imagine a quintessential English village church then you've got a pretty accurate picture. Aside from the distant hum of the A2, all I could hear as I walked through the churchyard was birds singing and the crunch of frost under my feet. The ground was glistening and my breath rose in swirls of white mist.

It was extraordinarily peaceful. I put some roses and a card by the headstone and then I sat on the nearby bench until my bum went numb. I spent the time writing in a purple notebook I've been using to write letters to my mum since May 14th, 2020, when she was rushed to hospital for what would be the final time.

My therapist once suggested I could try talking aloud to my mum, but I found it difficult because it felt too unnatural. So instead I started writing letters. Not just during the intense waves of missing her, but also for the day-to-day stuff that, for the rest of my life, I will miss being able to tell her in daily natters on the phone and constant texting."

Since my mum, Jill Tatler, died on May 29th, 2020, I've learned that it's important to live with my grief on my sleeve. Not everyone is able to engage with my grief in the way that I need. That can be frustrating, but it's also okay. Because some people just know, and that has become indispensable. I think that refusing to shy away from grief can help us find our people. I've also slowly worked out how best to serve my grieving self. Sometimes absolutely nothing makes sense and I feel like I'm drowning, but sometimes I'm able to use something in my griefy toolkit to find a little comfort. I'm somehow five years into life without my mum now, and guess what one of my best tools is? Well yes, it's The Real Housewives, but it's also writing.

There’s nothing revelatory in saying that music is one of the most profound ways in which we can connect with the people we love, especially if those people are no longer with us. It only takes an opening beat, a familiar vocal riff, even just a particular note to whisk you back to an exact moment in time. One bar of music can conjure a memory so vivid it's almost like you're living it all over again. Sometimes this can be excruciating, but it can also be intensely comforting.

As I'll discuss with the upcoming guests in this newsletter, we all have the records or artists that remind us of our person. We all have days we can't listen to that music, and days we want to completely immerse ourselves in it because we want to feel that connection. And we all have clear pictures that appear in our mind when we listen to our song.

My mum and I at her wedding reception in December, 2015

When I think of my mum and music, there are a hundred different images that I could bring to the forefront. I can picture her driving me to school in a bright sweatshirt with big glasses and her short blonde hair in a ponytail. Eternal's Greatest Hits is blaring from the CD player. I remember her wedding reception, when First Choice’s “Love Thang” played and she bopped over to me to exclaim: “See? I like new music too!” (Good try mum, but “Love Thang” was released in 1979). I can also see her dancing around the kitchen singing "You to Me Are Everything" by soul group The Real Thing, throwing her arms out towards me as she belted out every word including the ad libs. Years later, this was the song we would immediately choose for her funeral.

I think my brothers would both attest to the fact that we hear "You to Me Are Everything" far more today than we used to. Of course it's possible that it used to play all the time and we just didn't notice, but I think there's been too many "coincidences" for it to always just be a coincidence. I wouldn't call myself a particularly spiritual person, but I choose to believe that sometimes our mum sends us signs–and sometimes that's The Real Thing.

Thank you so much for reading. I’m looking forward to sharing the first interview with you in two weeks’ time.

My mum loved this song…

Twice a month, I’ll publish written conversations with my guests, where we’ll chat about the music that connects them to their loved ones.

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The first edition will be published next week. In the meantime, I wanted to share an excerpt from this personal essay I wrote for Resident Advisor in 2021, “Dancing My Way Through Grief.” It’s about the first time I was finally able to go clubbing post lockdown and after losing my mum.

“My mum loved to dance. She loved disco, she loved pop, she loved big hair, bright clothes and sparkly everything. Since she died, my brothers and I have curated a shared playlist of songs that remind us of her. And by that, I mean songs that remind us of her singing and dancing her way through life: Eternal, M People, George Benson, Bowie, Kylie, Earth, Wind & Fire, KC & The Sunshine Band, and "Oops Up Side Your Head" by The Gap Band, with its signature dance which involves sitting in a line on the floor and moving your bodies forwards and back in unison. I'll never forget her wedding in 2015, when she and her best friends got on the sticky floor of an Isle of Wight pub to show us the moves, almost four decades after they did it the first time—probably at Flicks nightclub in Dartford.”

And so there we have the first song on the My Mum Loved This Song playlist. I’m looking forward to this list of records growing over time, and for sharing the accompanying stories.

Thank you for reading,

Katie x