It could be said that I’m a little bit out of my depth here, having only experienced life for 20 years. But in those 20 years, I’ve been sculpted endlessly by the things that I have dealt with – even if I haven’t realised it at the time.

Death. It’s a harrowing concept, the fact that those around you – and yourself, eventually – will take one last breath, have one last heartbeat. Bereavement is excruciating and isolating; we live every moment believing that those around us will remain around us, and when they’re gone, a void that seemingly can never be filled prevails. But through death, comes the realisation of something priceless: love. That scorching feeling of pain and despondency is there for one sole reason – you have loved, and been loved.

When I was 7, my friend was diagnosed with a brain tumour. Of course, I didn’t understand the seriousness of it but as I witnessed him deteriorate, it eventually became clear. I knew that the world would lose him, but – as with any terminal illness – the priority was to make his life the happiest it could possibly be. His energy and love of living never faltered and with that, accepting death became easy. Easy may be the wrong word, but whilst it was heartbreaking to accept that the most part of his life was dictated by his health, knowing that he always carried kindness and strength with him – and knowing that I and those around him made him happy – meant that when the news came of his death seven years later, I could sit down and be certain that he knew he was loved, and I knew that I had loved. In that situation, death certainly made me a better person. Through the years of his illness, I gained empathy and selflessness. After his death, I gained an entirely new perspective on life. If I were to do nothing with it, and not make the most of every opportunity, every situation, every moment – I would be wasting it. If I was not to live for myself, then I would live for him. So now, at 20, that temperament still remains – more so than ever. At an age where for the majority of people, everything is brimming with doubt – am I on the right path, do people actually like me, do I really know how I am – I understand the importance of living. For that, I am grateful. In death, came a love for life.

The notion of losing grandparents and parents is haunting. I have lost both grandmothers, and each loss came with a different reaction. My father’s mum passed away first; that side of the family has always been small, with 5 of us saying goodbye at her bedside. Although no less heartbreaking than any other death, I once again coped with it by knowing that she knew how loved she was, and knowing that – aside from when I was being a typical antisocial teenager – I had shown her that love limitlessly.

My mum’s mother passed away years later, which was the hardest. I’m not going to detail the ins and outs of it, but my grandmother suffered with an awful neurological disease, Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. It actually sounds like a superpower – silver linings and all that jazz. It meant that over time she lost the ability to walk, talk and even blink – so she needed constant care. I remember giving her head massages when she was in discomfort, reading her books that she probably had no interest in, and trying my best to not accidentally tip her out of her wheelchair when we went out. When it was time for her to go, she was nice and warm in bed in a hospice, with her children and husband around her, having seen myself and the rest of her grandchildren a few hours before. The entire process – the decline in health to even after her death made me realise how important family is. When caring for her, we all came together and after her passing, we have eachother endless support. Although she was suffering, she saw most of us nearly every day right up until the end. And so, I could cope. Don’t get me wrong, it was and still is one of the hardest things I’ve had to deal with, but she knew how much we loved her, even though she couldn’t tell us. And when she was healthy – even when she wasn’t – we all knew how much she loved us. The love that she gave us spread through us all, and considering we’re a pretty big family, she did a bloody good job. In death, the love we had for her became the love we have for eachother. She would be most impressed.

Grieving is the hardest thing in the world, but seeing someone else in pain is much harder. I can only imagine what my grandad is going through – it will be a long time until I understand how it feels to lose the person you spent your life with. But all you can do is try. Try to help, even if they’re dismissing it. Talk. Talk about the person you or they have lost, the happiness they had, the embarrassing moments. Be there. Just spend time with them – it’s little things that mean the most, a cup of tea, a phonecall, anything. I feel as though the most important thing about helping someone through bereavement is to make them see that life can still have meaning – and that they can still live.

“When the people you love are broken down and weary, give them grace and let them rest. Healing happens when our hearts and hands are being held. Speak to them softly, gently kiss their scars, shine light in their cracks and allow them the space to stand up when they can find the ground beneath them.” So love, as much as you can.

I’m certainly no expert. There are plenty of people who have experienced way harder things in life, and many more than myself. But if I can illustrate one thing, it’s to love with everything you have. You may have a hectic lifestyle, but a phonecall to a friend or family member on your way home from work wouldn’t go amiss. Just make sure that those around you know that you love them – not so it makes it easier for you when they go, but so they can take their last breath knowing how much you cared.