My former life ended with a phone call.

May 28, 2018 at 6:47pm, if we're getting into specifics.

As soon as I heard my mum's voice, I knew dad was gone.

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But I never could have anticipated that he would have taken his own life.

Overnight, the doldrums of modern life were replaced by a revolving door of sympathy lasagnas and uncomfortable condolences.

Isn't it funny how the everyday routine always seems so important until it's not?

That's the thing about death — you learn a lot about life and where you fit into the big picture.

Or in my case, that I would find meaning in running and half-baked metaphors about gardening.

Plant your tree and watch it grow

You always think you know how you'll fare in the face of loss, but in my case, it took me completely by surprise.

Because more than anything, I was angry.

Angry at the futility of our situation and angry at the insistence that I should indulge the sadness and give into grief.

I didn't want a pity party or condolences. I just wanted my dad.

That's when I was introduced to gardening.

Bridget Judd began working in her "garden of grief" soon after her father's death. ( Supplied: Judd family )

The concept of planting a tree is kind of a strange metaphor, but it's one that's stuck with me. And it goes something like this:

In the garden of grief, your tree is your own little homage to the person you've lost.

It's a way of honouring them — of saying, "I grew this for you."

It can be anything you want it to be. There are no guidelines — it could sprout by spring or take a decade to bloom.

But once you find out what that is, you have to plant it, nurture it and watch it grow.

Unexpectedly, I found my first tree while running.

My first seedling sprouted with a run

Now, I should say that fitness has never really been my forte.

In fact, for someone who — up until that point — had spent the better part of four years seeking sustenance from Double Whoppers and cigarettes, sprinting through the streets of suburbia was very off-brand.

And yet, that is exactly where I found myself on that cold Tuesday night, some 24 hours after my world fell apart.

It's not that I'd developed a sudden zest for cardio as much as I couldn't bear to face the devastation that awaited me at home.

And so, with Brown Eyed Girl, the song my dad would sing to me when I was a kid, echoing through my headphones, I inexplicably found myself trying to outrun the sadness.

For those dealing with loss, grief is a marathon, not a race. ( Supplied )

Running was a way of isolating myself from a world that had fallen apart around me; of holding onto the last vestiges of a man who could light up a room while he silently endured his own darkness.

And with every step I took, it felt that grief was powerless to keep pace.

Running was the only thing that made sense to me, so within the week, I had signed up for my first 10-kilometre race to raise money for mental health — my first tree.

And I was going to do it for dad.

Grief is a journey, not a race

I hadn't talked about dad's death a lot.

Suicide isn't really one of those topics that neatly segues into a conversation.

When someone asks, "How are you doing?" you can't reply:

"Yeah not bad. Work is okay, the partner's good. Oh yeah, and dad killed himself."

Loss may be a universal language, but it is not one that comes easy. ( Supplied: Judd family )

In its own strange way, planting that first tree allowed me to give myself permission to talk about what had happened.

Running for a cause was a means for me to legitimise my grief to the world.

It ensured I could shape a narrative that was easier to accept: a tale of triumph over adversity that wouldn't make people so uncomfortable — that wouldn't make me so uncomfortable.

I trained day in and day out for that race, with every kilometre conquered reaffirming my belief that I was, quite literally, one step closer to overcoming grief, as though it were a marathon that could be won.

The thing about loss, though, is that it's a universal language. And once I started talking, people started talking back.

It took a while, but over time I no longer felt the need to sketch a story where I was the fearless protagonist untroubled by loss, and I was able to admit to myself and others that running that race probably wasn't going to take the pain away.

Still, there was something cathartic in watering my grief garden.

My grief garden keeps on growing

I felt like Forrest Gump when I finally crossed the finish line of that 10km race.

It wasn't easy, and it definitely wasn't anywhere near as cinematic as Tom Hanks would have you believe, but I bloody well did it.

My little seedling had become a tree.

Bridget Judd: "The thing about loss is that it's a universal language." ( Supplied: Bridget Judd )

My relationship to running has changed a lot since then. It's no longer a means of isolation — it's a testament to my own personal resilience.

Hills that used to knock the wind out of me now fail to draw a breath. Memories that would once give way to guttural cries have begun to elicit a smile.

Ten kilometres became 12. Twelve became 15. On August 4th, I'll run my first half-marathon.

I've planted dozens of trees over the past year.

Some are a work in progress, others are so big I'm surprised the neighbours haven't gone and got the council involved.

And while you might not be able to see them, rest assured, they're there.

My little garden of grief — a celebration of my dad.