Feeling Blue
Love, loss, and the comfort of blue
‘Generally speaking, I do not hunt blue things down, nor do I pay for them. The blue things I treasure are gifts, or surprises in the landscape…’
1st January was Day Four of Beth Kempton’s Winter Writing Sanctuary and the colour of the day was blue. As I sat on New Year’s Day pondering this calming, expansive colour, I felt weighed down with sadness. I was feeling blue. I know it isn’t in the spirit of the New Year to say this, but it’s the truth.
Before I go on I should say that this post is about grief, and in particular about the death of two beloved family members: a child and a young person. If this is too tender for you please sit this one out. I’m sharing it in the hope it may be comforting for some.
My end of year reflections sit in draft form, unfinished. I’d chosen to focus on the positives and planned to edit my draft in a writing workshop on 31st December. Cathy Rentzenbrink had organised a series of online workshops aimed at those who, for whatever reason, didn’t feel overjoyed by ‘the festive period’. The irony that I felt too sad to attend on Wednesday afternoon is not lost on me. Instead, I sought solace at Donmouth Nature Reserve. I needed to be on my own by the sea. I walked for a while and watched the light bouncing off white gulls, golden flashes at the water’s edge. I sat down on the carcass of a tree washed up on the shore. From there, I watched the last of the light shimmering like diamonds on the rippling water where the river meets the sea.
31st December was my nephew Theo’s birthday. He died of leukaemia in the week before Christmas 2024, twelve days before turning three. I didn’t make it down from Aberdeen to East Lothian to join the family celebration when he turned two in 2023. My travel plans were thwarted by Storm Gerritt; not the first time I’ve found myself stormbound and unable to see family since moving away from Edinburgh a few years ago. I’d cried about it at the time, feeling a deep sense of sadness not to be with everyone. ‘There’ll be more birthdays,’ my husband Guy had said, trying to comfort me. But that was his last.
I’m no stranger to grief. I’ve experienced the pain of losing both parents prematurely; my mum gradually, then my dad unexpectedly just a couple of years later. Both losses were devastating, but I’ve never cried as much as I have since Theo died. I’ve never felt sadness like it. I’m naming Theo here with my sister’s blessing. It felt wrong to refer to him simply as ‘my nephew’, as I did in a previous post. He was her little boy, and my loss is nothing next to hers. His eyes were a beautiful sky blue, with a ring of deeper blue around each iris. He had golden blond hair and the sweetest smile. He was beautiful in every way.
2025 was a brutal year for our family. Five months after Theo’s death, as we were slowly beginning to adjust to life without him, my cousin’s son Sam suffered a catastrophic head injury in a car accident and died a few days later. He was 24, the same age as my son, L. I’m naming Sam here because his death was widely reported. If you had the chance to watch him and his amazing mum – our cousin, Jo – on Race Across the World 2, which screened during lockdown in 2020, you’d understand something of our loss. Sam was a one-off, a wild wonder, and we all adored him.
Sam was adopted by Jo and her then-husband when he was six months old. He was four months older than L, and although they grew up in different cities they had a close bond and were thick as thieves each time they got together. We spent a brilliant weekend with Jo and Sam at my brother’s wedding in May 2025, just two weeks before Sam’s accident. ‘Our boys,’ Jo and I had said to each other as we watched them laughing together at dinner, grown up and handsome in their wedding finery. We were both so proud of the fine young men they’d become. L was a pallbearer at Sam’s funeral a few weeks later, a devastating thing to see.
I was supposed to be at a Hogmanay party a couple of days ago, but I just couldn’t muster any sparkle. Instead I stayed at home, exhausted by the weight of grief for these two precious members of our family. I was in bed asleep by 11 pm.
Now it’s 2nd January and I can feel the sadness lifting again a little. It snowed heavily overnight and it looks beautiful outside, the sun shining brightly and the birds singing.
I wanted to share below some of the blue things that have comforted me over the last year. They chime with Maggie Nelson’s words above, and I hope you enjoy them.
I carried this piece of lapis lazuli in my pocket when Theo was buried in a small family ceremony in a beautiful wood near the East coast last January. I was comforted by the feel of its cool shiny surface against the palm of my hand, and I’ve carried it with me ever since. I love its shape, colour, and texture; the way it fits perfectly in my hand.
The week after the funeral, a kind friend came to visit me, bringing some lovely flowers. Unlike many friends who seem to have evaporated during this period, this one has not shied away and has been a kind and gentle support. After lunch at mine we went for a walk in nearby Johnston Gardens. There in the bushes, its presence given away by the gathering of men in camo wielding long lensed cameras, was this majestic kingfisher. It’s not a great photo, but it felt like a gift to see it.
In early February, Guy took me away for the night. We stayed in Aviemore then cycled in the forest the following day, admiring the stunning trees there. The following day we met a friend and his two children for a walk in Rothiemurchus. The company and scenery were a much needed tonic. See photo below and breathe.
Also in February, I went to see Samantha Clark’s beautiful artwork which featured as part of the In Orcadia exhibition at the Royal Scottish Academy. (Sam writes on here too, and I’m in awe of her talents.) Sam is Orkney-based, and the landscape there – vast skies and sea – inspires her stunning pieces. They’re intricate and mesmerising and I feel myself breathe more deeply when I look at them.
I can’t tell you what type of tree this is, but I loved the way it looked bathed in spring light. Hints of green against the bright blue sky; new life emerging.
I’m obsessed with the colour of these lithodora diffusa, ‘heavenly blue’. I planted them in the garden the year after we moved and they bring me deep joy (simple pleasures). They flower in March and I’m excited to see them again this year. When they’re in bloom, their colour makes me think of Bowie’s Sound and Vision: ‘Blue, blue, electric blue…’
I took these photos on a walk at Aberdeen Beach with Guy and his 17 year old daughter, J, in late March. The sky and sea often appear grey in Aberdeen, but not on this occasion. I love these blues.
We were on holiday in Cornwall when Sam had his accident. I took this photo during a walk at The Lizard on what was the finest day of the year so far, minutes before receiving a message telling us the terrible news. We met an old, close friend as planned later that afternoon. I’d sent her a message before we met to let her know what had happened. My friend lost her brother in an accident when she was a teenager and has been a massive support throughout various personal losses. A hippy at heart, she passed me a bundle of gemstones and minerals she’d picked up in a shop near our meeting place, the piece of apatite pictured below among them. Like the lapis lazuli, I’ve added this to the selection of small objects I now carry around with me for comfort and reassurance.
In late June, the weekend after Sam’s funeral, Guy and I, together with Guy’s two young adult kids, visited Guy’s brother and wife in Lochinver. My sister-in-law had watched Race Across the World and loved Sam. It felt good to talk about him with her. On a long loch-side walk we talked openly about love and loss, and she shared with me some of her own family’s painful experiences. We all swam in the sea at Achmelvich before heading home to Aberdeen. The blues of the skies and seas in the North West of Scotland are hard to beat; if not curative, at least therapeutic.
I’ve long been obsessed with birds, a facet which is deepening in middle age. Over the past year I’ve begun to gather feathers. The small magpie feather below is one of my favourites and has been added to the witchy arsenal of found/gifted objects.
I turned 50 in October, and what I wanted more than anything was to spend time away with my sisters and their families. We rented a large farmhouse in St Bee’s, Cumbria and Jo joined us there with her older son and two dogs. We went for walks on the beach and ate meals together at a long wooden table in the huge kitchen. My 7 year old nieces put on a dance show two nights in a row, which was sweet, fun, and very touching. We sat in a hot tub under the stars and played silly games. It was the highlight of my year, just perfect.
Guy bought me a painting by Aberdeen artist Val Thomson, who has become a friend since I moved here. I love her work, inspired by the skies and seas of the North East; the colours and rich textures of her paintings. Pictured below, in a photo which doesn’t do it justice, her painting ‘Strong Foundation’ now brings me pleasure each day. Val kindly gave me another painting as a gift when Guy made this purchase. I’m very lucky.
Not quite in keeping with the loose theme of gifts or surprises in the landscape, but very much on a blue tip, Amy Key’s Arrangements in Blue was a book I’d been curious about since it came out in 2023. I downloaded it and listened during dark November evenings and on long car journeys up and down the East coast, and it’s stayed with me since. Beautifully written, it’s an insightful, candid, sometimes painful memoir about life as a single woman living on her own terms. Amy Key is an inspiring aesthete – a woman who knows how to live well, which I mean as a compliment. Based around Joni Mitchell’s Blue, one of the best albums ever made (and don’t try to tell me otherwise), this thought-provoking book left me wanting to revisit the text in written form because I want to savour it. If you haven’t already read this, I recommend doing so.
Like Amy Key, I’ve listened to Joni Mitchell’s Blue countless times and know it inside out. My sisters and I were brought up on Joni, and this album is pretty much flawless. Alice Vincent has also written beautifully about Blue and I recommend checking out her piece here. (If it’s paywalled and you’re interested, hit me up as I have a couple of gift subs up for grabs.)
After listening to Arrangements in Blue, I found myself returning to Blue once more and it’s been on repeat throughout December. It makes me feel close to my mum, my dad, and my sisters, and I’ll never tire of it.
And finally, the same dear friend who presented me with a bundle of rocks and gemstones after we heard about Sam – who has a knack of sending cards and parcels at the right time, always, sometimes apropos of nothing – sent this forget-me-not card for me and my family in December, recognising our losses and letting us know she was thinking of us. A thoughtful gesture which meant a lot.
This has been a long post and if you’re still with me I appreciate you taking the time to read. Thank you.
I’m grateful to Beth Kempton for the inspiration and hope she won’t mind me veering way off piste with this one.
I’d love to hear from you if any of this resonated. (All Joni appreciation welcome.) 💙
I’m going to try to post a bit more on here in the year ahead. I still have some basics to attend to, like summarising in a snappy paragraph what you can expect from my Substack; I think I’m still working that out. In the meantime, I’m grateful for the support and was delighted today to get my fiftieth subscriber!
I’ve had to read this post in pieces, Sophie, it’s so beautiful and raw - and thank you for sharing snippets of the light along with such hardness. So sorry for the losses of Theo and Sam, and hope for moments of peace in 2026 - sending thoughts from down here in Glasgow x
I am sorry for your losses, Sophie. Blue has always been my favourite colour and I have always been a rather blue person in my melancholy moods. I never liked the festive since, well, not since my father died in a car accident just before Christmas, when I was 15, and with my birthday coinciding the last day of the year, I too always found it to be a gloomy period. This year, I came down with a bad cold just before New Year’s Eve, which was a great excuse not to partake in anything remotely festive. Sometimes curling up in a sad ball is also good for us. Sending warm wishes for 2026. And thank you for this beautiful post. I enjoyed listening to you narrate it.