After my mum died, I didn’t set out to create rituals. I was just trying to get through the days without feeling like the ground had dropped away under me. Some things stuck because they made those days a little more bearable.
Looking back, I realise they became my small grief rituals, just quiet things that helped me keep moving when everything inside me wanted to stop. Sometimes it’s not about fixing grief, it’s about surviving it. These small rituals helped me feel less alone and gave me ways to get through the hardest days so far.
Here are a few of the small things that helped, that might help you too.
Keeping a Familiar Corner the Same
One of the first things I did, without really meaning to, was leave some of her spaces untouched. After the funeral, I sent back the hospital bed and medical equipment because the house felt too clinical. But her bedroom upstairs stayed the same — messy from the last time she used it, with a basket of washed clothes still waiting to be put away.
I couldn’t bring myself to clear them.
The living room seemed bare without all the equipment and her recliner gone, but her paintings still hung on the door. Walking past them every morning gave me a small moment of comfort. I didn’t want anything else to change. It was too much.
I just needed parts of the house to still feel like her, so I could feel her in the everyday corners when I needed to.
Carrying Something Small
One morning I picked up one of her old bracelets and put it on without thinking too much about it. It felt like something solid to hold on to.
After that, it became a quiet habit. I would wear it on days that felt heavy or when I had to face something hard. I never talked about it. It was just a way of carrying a piece of her with me, a small thing that somehow made the weight of grief a little easier to bear.
Letting Myself Leave Things Unfinished
Grief stripped away the usual pressure I used to pile on myself. Before Mum died, I liked to finish everything properly before the end of the day – leaving a clean kitchen, tidying the living room at night, setting things out for the morning.
Grief knocked all of that sideways.
I learned to let things sit unfinished. Dishes stayed in the sink for days. Letters remained unopened in the letterbox catcher. Letting things wait was its own kind of survival. Not because I didn’t care, but because I had nothing left to give some days.
I learned to let things be unfinished without beating myself up about it. It wasn’t laziness. Sometimes just getting through the day was all I could manage.
Stepping Outside, Even for a Minute
Some days the house felt like it was closing in on me. It wasn’t helpful to stay indoors every day. When it got too much, I would step outside, even if it was just for a few minutes.
I didn’t always have the energy for a walk. Sometimes I just stood on the back step and felt the cold air or watched the sky change. It reminded me that the world didn’t stop turning because I was grieving and for a moment, it gave me a break from feeling the way I did.
Later, when I could manage it, getting out for a short walk became a ritual I relied on to help me clear my head.
Drinking Her Tea
There was a box of Mum’s rooibos tea in the cupboard. She had drunk it every day for as long as I could remember. At first, I made a cup just to use it up, but it quickly became a way of sitting with her.
I wasn’t trying to feel close to her by drinking her tea, but some days, without even noticing it, it worked.
Now it’s a habit that’s stayed with me — and I’m not even a tea drinker. When I’m missing her badly, I make a cup of her tea. That smell brings back happy memories and gives me a moment of connection that helps my mind settle.
Lighting Incense or Oud
Mum loved the smell of oud. It was the scent of our home for so long before I ever even realised it.
After she passed, I started lighting oud in the mornings. The smell would fill the house, and for a few minutes, I could close my eyes and almost imagine she was still sitting there, shouting that I’d used too much and the house was getting too smoky.
It just became one of the small grief rituals that helped me feel close to her again. My biggest worry is forgetting all the little things that mattered. I miss not hearing her voice, especially when she was chastising me.
Saying “Good Morning” and “Good Night”
I didn’t plan this either. Some mornings, without even thinking, I’d find myself saying “Morning, Mum”as I opened the curtains. Or “Good night” before I switched off the light.
Sometimes quietly out loud or in my head.
It wasn’t about believing she could hear me. It was more like a habit my heart wasn’t ready to break. It felt comforting, not strange – just one of those small grief rituals that made the silence a little less loud.
Changing My Phone Screensaver
I didn’t have many photos of just the two of us, which still stings when I think about it. I had spent years making sure everyone else had photos with her, but somehow forgot to take them myself.
Eventually, I found one that felt right. I changed it to my phone background. It’s not the perfect photo, but it’s ours, us smiling happily into the camera.
Every time I use my phone, I see her smile. It lifts my heart and sometimes brings a tear to my eye, but I’m grateful I captured that.
Writing One Line a Day
I used to love journaling, in the first days after she died I wrote a lot out of anger. But now writing pages of feelings wasn’t going to happen. But I still wanted to remember but I couldn’t put everything in this blog. So instead, I made it simpler, using prompts on days where I couldn’t do anything, I told myself: just one line.
One sentence about the day, one memory of her, even just a feeling.
Most days it was short and simple – “I wish you were here,” or “I hope you’re happy and free from pain now,” or “I’m so sorry, Mum.” But it was enough.
It gave me a place to put some of the hard parts of grief instead of carrying it all inside.
Wearing Red on Certain Days
Mum loved red. It was her favourite colour, especially for clothes. Some days, when I wanted to feel close to her, I pulled out something red to wear. It didn’t matter if it matched. It was just quietly saying, “I’m thinking of you.”
I don’t know why, but it made me feel better – a scarf, a jumper, even just red socks. It was like carrying a small piece of her into the day with me.
And on the particularly sad days, that pop of colour helped change my mindset, just for a moment. And sometimes that moment was enough.
Final Thoughts
None of these small rituals solved my grief. They didn’t take away the profound sense of loss. But they gave me something to hold on to when I felt shaky and alone.
They became simple practices that helped me move through the days, even when everything inside me wanted to stop. They gave me brief moments of solace and helped me feel a little less lost.
It’s these small rituals that can help you breathe a little more easily in the hardest moments. Tiny, almost invisible things that make the unbearable slightly more bearable.
And sometimes, when you’re grieving, that’s enough. I hope this was helpful for you, let me know what rituals helped you.
