Half-a-Hooley and the Mystery of Seven: 15 Years of Learning to Walk Beside Grief
October is always a reflective month in my calendar. We just celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving, a holiday we never had back in Ireland. Yet every October, as the leaves turn and the table fills, I notice a familiar pull in my chest.
October 24th marks 15 years since my mum, Claire, passed away from small cell lung cancer at 58.
Fifteen years is a strange milestone. In 2011, Instagram didn't exist in our pockets, smartphones were in their infancy, and we took far fewer casual photos of the people we loved. When I emigrated from Ireland to Canada in 2012, my entire physical life was compressed into a single suitcase. Among my clothes, I packed just two physical anchors of my mum: her watch and the memorial obituary bookmark above. Everything else was carried in memory.
In the early weeks, months, and years, grief was a heavy, sharp weight. It was the crushing ache of her missing out on life. It was the bewilderment of watching the rest of the world keep spinning while my dad, my siblings, and I were suddenly anchored to the absence of the greatest constant in our lives.
With time, grief changes its posture. It stops being a sudden abyss and becomes a quiet, constant companion. Today, after a decade and a half, the absence feels less like an open wound and more like a gentle, daydreamy warmth.
I often catch myself wondering what mum would be like in 2026. How would she have changed? Would she be getting hooked and hacked on social media? How many times would she have flown across the Atlantic to visit Ryan and me in Canada?
To truly understand that warmth, you have to know who she was.
The Spirit of "Half-a-Hooley"
My mum was the life and soul of the room, right up until the exact second she decided it was time for bed.
My dad affectionately nicknamed her "Half-a-Hooley." In Ireland, a hooley is a lively house party. Mum loved nothing more than gathering people together. When the pub closed on a weekend, she would invite half the neighbourhood back to our house to keep the laughter, the drinking, and the singing going.
The catch? As soon as tiredness hit, she would quietly pull an Irish exit, slipping upstairs to bed and leaving my poor dad downstairs to host the crowd and tackle the cleanup.
She was deeply loyal, especially to her best friends, Ann and Ita. Nothing brought her greater joy on a Friday evening than putting the world to rights with her pals over a few Coors Light.
Growing up, we didn't have much money. But my mum and dad made sure we never felt it. She would quietly go without so that my siblings and I had what we needed. She poured everything she had into making sure our home was warm and our table was full.
The Mystery of Seven
Grief has a way of forcing us across thresholds we never planned to cross. Looking back at my mum’s illness and passing, an extraordinary pattern of sevens woven through the calendar still stops me in my tracks:
She was diagnosed with lung cancer at 1:00 PM on March 24, 2011.
She passed away at 1:00 PM on October 24, 2011 (exactly seven months later).
Exactly seven months after her passing, at 1:00 PM on May 24, 2012, I boarded a plane and emigrated to Canada.
Leaving Ireland so soon after her death was heartbreaking, but it was an urge I couldn't ignore. The ground beneath my feet had shifted, and I felt a deep, instinctive pull to step into the unknown. If my mum had survived, I doubt I ever would have found the courage to leave home.
That leap brought me to Vancouver, to lifelong friendships, and to the love of my life, Ryan. When I discovered that Ryan’s birthday is July 7th (7/7), the hair on my arms stood up. In my heart, I know she guided me to him.
On the eve of my wedding to Ryan, I took the watch I had carried across the ocean in that suitcase and gifted it to my mother-in-law. My mother-in-law can't replace my mum, but she is the next best thing, and a woman I cherish more deeply with each passing year. Passing that watch forward felt like weaving my mum’s love directly into our new family.
Living Through the Threshold
When big milestones happen today, I still wish she were sitting in the front row. But I no longer feel like she is completely absent.
There's an unmistakable part of my spirit, my humour, and my values that simply is Claire. When I am faced with a major decision, she is still my quiet conscience, reminding me who I am.
If she could look in on my life in 2026, I know she would comment on how I have changed. She would be fiercely proud of the life Ryan and I have built. Above all, I think she would look at the lives my siblings and I are living and feel a quiet, profound pride in herself for the foundation she sacrificed so much to build for us.
What 15 Years of Loss Teaches You About Change
In coaching, we talk constantly about being on the "cusp of change." It's literally the name of my practice. Often, change is something we choose. We look for a new role, start a company, or build new habits.
Loss is the ultimate uninvited change. It strips away our illusions of control and thrusts us into a reality we didn't ask for.
Living through the loss of my mum at a relatively young age reshaped how I hold space for others. When a client comes to me facing sudden upheaval, career shock, or the terrifying vulnerability of letting go of who they were, I don't feel the urge to offer quick platitudes or tidy five-step plans.
I know how to sit with someone in the scariness of the unknown.
I can hold that space without letting my own story take over, bearing witness to their grief, their fear, and their resilience.
Because on the other side of navigating our hardest endings is where our most courageous chapters begin.
To my mum, Claire: Thank you for the warmth, the laughter, and the foundation. The hooley continues in everything we do.
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