Yesterday I received a text to say my French “papa” had died that morning, just over a year after his wife’s death. Tears prickled my eyes but they were swiftly replaced with a protective blanket of numbness. After replying I got back to my work in an attempt to quieten all the thoughts and possibly to block out the feelings. After practice I walked up the hill and had a steady trot back down – it was slippery after the New Year’s Day deluge and the morning frost was holding on tight.

In the evening I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m familiar with bereavement and loss but I still don’t know how to handle it. What worries me is that I’m not expressing it. My default mode is practicality. I needed a big strong hug.

I looked for flights even though I don’t know when the funeral will take place. I also looked at accommodation in case it’s a full house. I don’t really want to go but I want to be there to pay my respects.

I journaled last night. Tonight I’m looking through old photos and remembering all the good times I had in Lyon while I was living with my French family.