“How Losing My Mum As A Child Shaped An Unbreakable Bond Between My Siblings & Me”

I’ll never forget the day my auntie pulled me out of my grade four class, her hand tightly clasped around mine. As we rushed to the hospital, my seven-year-old brother, Coby, sat beside me in the backseat. “Everything will be okay. Gemma and your dad are already at the hospital,” my auntie tried to reassure us. But when I glanced at Coby, just three years my junior, I saw the same worry in his eyes. Then, my thoughts shifted to Gemma, my newborn baby sister – and nothing about this felt “okay.” Our lives were about to change forever.

My mum was the one who took me to swim meets, let me borrow a swipe of her lip gloss because it made me feel grown up, and the one who knew all my friends’ names. She was the one who set boundaries, while my dad snuck me sweets. Back then, he worked long hours as a pharmacy co-owner, which meant he often left before I went to school and returned home after I was asleep, so it was my mum who was home with us.

In many ways, Gemma’s birth felt like a miracle, especially after multiple miscarriages and IVF to bring Coby into the world. Throughout her pregnancy, she was excited to give me the sister I’d always wanted and provide my brother with a basketball opponent – or at least a rival for the bigger slice of garlic bread. A true people person, Mum deeply valued family, perhaps because she didn’t have siblings of her own. She wanted to create that bond for us, showing us the importance of having lifelong companions to lean on, learn from and grow with.

When she passed away at 41, a freak accident two weeks after Gemma’s birth, it shook us all. I didn’t just lose her, I lost the very foundation of my life. I mourned her vibrant personality, our relationship and all the memories that went with it, as well as the stability, support and routines that anchored me. Her absence shattered my entire world, everything I relied on, leaving me to navigate a world without the person who had been my constant.

But when family or friends checked in, I remember holding back my tears; a wall of protectiveness guarding me, for my sibling’s sake. As the eldest, I often felt like I had to be the one holding everything together, especially for Coby and Gemma’s sake. There was no time to truly process what we were going through; I just had to cope. Looking back, it feels like we grew up overnight. Coby and I were suddenly helping with things like cooking dinner, changing Gemma’s nappies, and cleaning up while Dad worked. But, as overwhelming as it was, it felt simpler to make a bottle for Gemma or pack school lunches than to confront the weight of my own emotions. It was easier to get lost in the tasks than to try to explain how I was feeling to anyone, or myself.

The distractions were what helped us get through the enormity of our loss. We took turns putting Gemma to bed, telling her stories the way our mum used to read to us. And in her own way, Gemma took care of us too. Her sassy attitude, her humour and those deceptively cute looks brought some much-needed light into our lives, reminding us that, even amid the pain, we could still find moments of joy.

“When we go through adversity, it creates a unique bond, often bringing deeper elements. It can bring siblings closer together, ” Dr Amanda Craig, a psychologist specialising in family and relationships, tells me. The adversity often encourages an intense emotional connection between those who have endured similar pain. For my siblings and me, our circumstances undoubtedly brought us closer, in ways I never could have imagined. When you are going through the peak of grief, it is easy to feel like no one can possibly understand how you are feeling. Yet, in my situation, I had three people: my dad and two siblings, who I knew loved my mum as much as I did. Of course, they were mourning their own relationships with her, but we had shared moments in the grief that bound us together. Like how we all craved her Bolognese or shepherd’s pie on a Thursday evening. How the house felt drastically quieter without her voice calling Coby and me to help empty the dishwasher. We all were sad, mad, confused and shocked. We all missed her. Even if we couldn’t fully grasp each other’s pain, there was always a shoulder to cry on – because sooner or later, one of us would need it, too.

However, with this intensity also came a lot of light. The way we bonded then, has manifested into our love of exploring together, going for weekend trips away or even just trying a new overpriced sandwich. It has taught us not to shy away from deep conversations but to challenge each other’s perspectives because we’ve already experienced what it means to have our foundations shaken. We don’t always agree with each other, and like most siblings, there are times you want to throw the other out of the window. But whenever one of us needs a call, chat, hug, or even a late-night rescue if things get a little out of hand, we’re always there for each other.

Now, we can laugh about the time Coby panicked and called my dad because Gemma had vomited all over her clothes – and his – and how Dad thought it was perfectly acceptable to feed us toasted cheese sandwiches with Heinz tinned spaghetti for dinner, night after night. But through the chaos, we also started creating new rituals to honour Mum’s memory, like grabbing a coffee from her favourite cafe by our local park or treating ourselves to something special on her birthday, because she loved shopping. It was in these moments we began to realise how her memory would live on in the things we did, and the traditions we carried forward. The way I let Gemma borrow a pair of earrings that were my mum’s – now mine – and told her the stories of how we once got hideous matching silicone neon spikey earrings that were only acceptable in the ’00s. The way my brother quietly supports my mum’s old football team, or Dad comments on my hair when it particularly resembles my mum’s. And the way we’d order Japanese takeaway – Mum’s favourite – on a Sunday evening, each of us bringing a hint of her presence to the dinner table.

Through it all, I’ve learned it’s okay to let my guard down. I’ve come to realise that it’s not just acceptable to grieve, but necessary. I can share the unexpected triggers, like the clinking of thick bangles like hers on a stranger’s wrist. These emotions, raw and unfiltered, are part of the healing. But understanding grief is complicated. And, as Dr Craig explains, parental loss can create “disconnect and tension”, particularly when siblings mourn in different ways. She notes that misunderstandings often arise from these differences, leading to feelings of isolation or frustration.

Visiting the cemetery is something I always find extremely hard. While Coby, who tends to be more reflective, and Gemma often offer support with a hand to hold or a well-timed joke, both approach it differently. At first, I struggled to understand why they weren’t as emotional as I was. But over time I’ve come to realise they were just processing their loss in their own ways, just like how each of us had a unique relationship with our mum. Over time, it’s emphasised the richness of her character, and how differently she touched us all – each one of us sharing different stories, bringing fresh elements of her back to life, bonding the three of us closer together.

Dr Craig emphasises the importance of being curious about siblings’ grief rather than avoiding the conversation to spare them from feeling upset. She explains that engaging in these discussions “helps create an open dialogue, creating space for rituals that allow their legacy to live on”. For us, the intensity of our shared experience has brought us closer together. There’s an understanding among us – we all get it.

For the longest time, I wanted my grief to go away, but I’m not sure it ever does. People say time helps heal wounds, but without my siblings, I’d still be bleeding. Today, they’re both in Australia, while I’m living in London – literally on the other side of the world. I moved here to lean into new opportunities, to chase adventures that my mum never had the luxury of experiencing. Yet, even with the miles between us, no distance could break our connection. Coby sends me photos of his latest gardening side quest, while Gemma only Facetimes me when she needs outfit advice. Often, on calls to my dad, the two of them will consume the conversation. The three of us diving into debates over who’s the loudest, most annoying or the biggest yapper – exactly the kind of thing that would have made Mum, who was both loud and a chatterbox herself, burst into laughter. I’m so grateful for how they both add freshness, challenge my perspective and bring fun to my life. And because they were there when my world changed – just as theirs did.

It’s why this Mother’s Day, I’m not only thinking of my mum but also of my brother and sister. Even though Mum is no longer here, I know she’d be looking down, so proud of the three of us. Gemma’s witty sass, Coby’s unconventional charm and my tenacious creativity, each trait balancing the other. It is our differences, both in our personalities and how we grieved, that have brought us together. Through our contrasting ways of coping and supporting each other, we’ve learned to appreciate our unique strengths. And no matter where life takes each one of us, that bond will never break.