Navigating Cumulative Grief When Sibling and Parent Losses Collide

'Grief doesn't have a timeline,' a lesson I learned after loss. Read the story, 'No Right Way to Do Grief,' by Julie Budge about the complexity of grief and the importance of allowing grief its time.

Welcome to the Grief Stories community! I hope you find this to be a welcoming place where you’ll be able to share experiences, get things off your chest, support one another, ask questions, and chat to people who truly ‘get it’. I invite you to read and share stories of hope and healing; giving a voice to loss and grief. This is a safe place helping us to feel less alone on our journey and providing comfort in hard times.

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Recently, someone asked me how many siblings I have, and the question stirred emotions I didn’t expect. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked, but the timing made it land differently. My social media feed has been filled with posts marking Worldwide Bereaved Sibling Awareness Month - gentle reminders of a grief that often sits quietly in the background until something pulls it forward again.

So when I heard that innocent question, “How many siblings do you have?” I froze for a moment. I lost my brother before I was born. So… does that count? Do I say I have two brothers - one here and one in heaven? Being a rainbow baby comes with its own shadows. I still find myself wondering who he might have been. What his laugh would sound like. Whether he’d have children of his own. If I might be a double or even triple auntie by now.

As Kat Stano describes so beautifully in her story, siblings are often the forgotten grievers - children who tiptoe around their parents’ heartbreak, who get overlooked in the swirl of loss, who learn early how to hold their breath around pain. And this month, as the world pays a little more attention to sibling loss, many of us find ourselves revisiting the quiet corners of our own stories.

But what happens when the losses don’t stop there? When one grief folds into another, and then another? When the sibling you’ve mourned is followed by the loss of a parent, and suddenly the foundation beneath you shifts again?

How do we carry cumulative grief? Do we try to outrun it, hoping if we don’t look too closely, it might soften on its own? Do we imagine grief works like a checklist - tend to one loss, then another, and eventually “graduate” from the pain? But what if grief doesn’t work that way? What if each new loss tugs on the old ones, weaving them together into something heavier, but also something deeply human?

As we honour Bereaved Sibling Awareness Month and are remembering the siblings we lost, it feels just as important to acknowledge the layered, complex reality of losing again. Of navigating adulthood with old and new absences, of trying to make sense of who we are in the wake of everything we’ve lived through, just like Julie.

In today’s Grief Stories, Julie Budge bravely shares about the compounded weight of love and grief after the loss of her brother Richard and her mum Christine. Her story is a powerful reminder of the courage it takes to speak these intertwined truths and of the way grief shifts, evolves, and reshapes us over time.

Julie is a poet, storyteller, and founder of Feather & Ink, a fledgling nature-inspired letter subscription club that blends birdsong, wellbeing, and poetic reflection.

I’m deeply grateful to Julie for her courage and vulnerability. Her story reminds us of the importance of patience, self-compassion, and acknowledging grief as a lifelong, evolving process - one that can shape resilience, purpose, and meaning.

If her story speaks to your heart, I’d love to know what resonates with you.

‘No Right Way to Do Grief’ by Julie Budge

Grief Story #019

In December 2016, my brother and his little family spent Christmas with my family. Richard asked if he could see the Women’s Centre I had founded in 2014, and we stood outside. He said he was so proud of me. That moment is etched in my brain because I felt that foreboding feeling at that moment. I couldn’t shake it.

Within a month, we heard he had collapsed in his local supermarket, and we were told it was a brain tumour. On April 4th, just 3 months after his diagnosis, he passed away, aged 54 years. There followed dark days, made so much worse because my Mum had vascular dementia. There was so much conflicting advice about telling her. Only a few weeks before, we had the dilemma of taking her to see Rich in the hospice.

Rich lived in Yorkshire; we were in West Sussex. We decided to take her as we thought our Mum needed to be there. It was a strange journey in my other brother’s van, and he and my Mum stayed in the van and had the same conversations repeatedly for six long hours’ drive. When we got there, she knew instantly what was going on. Her memory was clear as a bell. I won’t go into the details, but it was just what they both needed, although by then my brother was unconscious and never woke up again.

When we walked back to the van, she said, “Are you taking me home now – because I have no idea where I live?” There followed so many heart-breaking moments when she asked if someone had died, and it broke her and my hearts over and over again as she realised or heard the news like the first time.

As one can imagine, the next issue was his funeral. After much discussion, through hurt, pain, and different opinions - between us three siblings, we decided one of us would stay with Mum behind whilst the other sibling and I went back to Yorkshire. It was incredibly hard and filled me with so much doubt. Was it right that she was not present? We will never know. But the missing family at the funeral mattered, and it was an incredibly devastating day.

It was about to get much worse. In June, just two months later, my mom was rushed to the hospital and died on the eve of my birthday. Without a shadow of a doubt, they listed COPD (breathing condition) as the reason, but we felt it was a broken heart.

Now to the grief - I postponed it, really. At the time I was the founder of a women’s charity where I was the CEO. It was filled with staff and women in need; it was more than full-time. At that time, a fledgling organisation really needed constant attention. So, after three weeks’ leave, I threw myself into work.

I grieved quietly, alone, and retrieved my life script habit - hiding, numbing, and just ‘getting on with it’.

Only rudely brought back to in terms of clearing my parents’ flat with my siblings – unbelievably painful and stark reminder of how different we all were, then ordering gravestone changes, then selling the flat, then sorting money. All the useful stuff in the midst of horror and us siblings, coping all so differently.

Despite this, the charity grew. It became so successful, even though underneath, I was an emotional wreck. However, every talk I gave was more emotive and raised thousands of pounds, went on national TV, won a major national award, and, of course, took the centre through Covid – but it was far from easy, and I felt so heavy most of the time. The body keeps the score, and my dormant psoriasis burst into life all over my body. I felt crap but carried on.

In 2021, our children left home, and we made the rather massive decision to relocate 400 miles away from West Sussex, where we had lived for 17.5 years. I resigned as founder and CEO, and we retreated to the country.

Then, and only then, slowly, with the habit of more life balance, time in nature, and morning pages writing, I have begun to grieve more, allow, surrender, and let go.
It has been far from easy, but sometimes, it’s the oddest thing that shifts me.

We watched Grey’s Anatomy endlessly. There was an acceptance speech, and they mentioned how, despite her grief and loss, the said member of staff put all her energy into something that turned out so well. It was like a light went on – I had felt so guilty about not grieving ‘as I should’ that I was ‘cold, uncaring’ and that I had put myself to work to block it. But listening to that, I reframed my critical thoughts on my own grief as I, too, turned that grief into something that changed and saved so many lives.

I have also recently had days of walking down the road sobbing. Feeling gigantic losses on birthdays and death days like most people do. The first half of the year is littered with their birthdays, death day, mother’s day etc. Over one decade, five members of our wider family have died. I find so much solace in endless reflections in my morning pages; finding my creativity again has been so delightful and transformative.

Another big moment was a recent meeting with my siblings - it was the first time since 2017 that we had a wonderful, comfortable get-together. We talked about our missing ones, but only with smiles and happy thoughts. We had moved past those intense days of grief when decisions had to be made, and compromises were so challenging.

We did the best we could, and I believe that’s all you can do. It is not over because they will always be missed. But, you know, I forgive myself. I have feelings, I am sensitive, and I know that now. I have survived to live another day, and for that, I am truly blessed. We get to have this day.

Grief Story by Julie Budge

Friend, when you look back on the hardest seasons of your life, what would it mean to honour the way you coped - with compassion instead of criticism - and to recognise the quiet strength that carried you through? How have the different ways your family members have grieved shaped your relationships? What part of your story still needs your forgiveness, and what would it mean to finally give that to yourself?

Julie Budge is a poet and storyteller with deep roots in the voluntary and community sector. Now based in Goodwick, Pembrokeshire (the UK), she is joyfully weaving her creative and community passions into a vibrant new chapter -right at the front. At 59, she proudly achieved an MA in Creative Writing for Well-being, marking a return to her first love: writing.

Now 60, she is excited to be the founder of Feather & Ink, a fledgling nature-inspired letter subscription club that blends birdsong, wellbeing, and poetic reflection. Through her fictional character Maya - central to the novel she is currently writing - Julie curates monthly mailings that include illustrated letters, bird-themed postcards, journaling prompts, and collectible stickers. Each element is designed to nurture quiet connection and seasonal awareness.

With a background in non-profit leadership and emotionally intelligent governance, Julie now devotes her time to writing her debut fiction book alongside part-time work. Her creative practice is grounded in metaphor, sensory detail, and a deep reverence for nature’s rhythms.

You can connect with Julie on Instagram.