002: The Grief Gang's Amber Jeffrey on Diana Ross, Yorkshire Tea and community

"Life's short. Eat the cake. Have the laugh. We're all here on borrowed time."

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.

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.

If you're not a subscriber but you'd like to make a one-off payment to My Mum Loved This Song in support of Anthony Nolan, you can do so here:

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.

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!

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.