By Lynda Dullop
I was 15 when my mum died. She was 48.
Those numbers have never quite left me. At the time, I didn’t understand what they would come to mean – only that something fundamental had gone, and nothing would ever feel quite the same again.
My mum’s name was Beulah. She was beautiful in that effortless way – short brown hair, bright blue eyes, pink lipstick she never left the house without. She laughed loudly, loved fiercely, and had the rare gift of making people feel completely seen. When she walked into a room, it felt warmer.
When she died, the world didn’t stop, but mine did.
I learned very quickly how to carry on. To be capable. To be self-sufficient. To smile and say I was fine. Grief, especially at that age, teaches you how to grow up fast. Too fast.
There was no space then to talk about what it meant to lose a parent while still needing one. No language for the quiet panic of navigating milestones without the person who should be guiding you. I became good at functioning while feeling hollow.
Years passed. Life moved forward. And still, grief stayed.
Recently, I realised something that stopped me in my tracks: my mum has now been gone for as long as she was alive. She died on 24 December, and I have now lived more of my life without her than with her. That thought landed heavily – not with drama, just with truth.
Grief doesn’t fade. It changes shape. It softens, sharpens, hides, and then suddenly appears again, in moments you don’t expect.
What surprised me most, as I got older, was how many people quietly carried similar stories. Different losses, different ages, but the same underlying absence.
When I began opening my home and my heart to small gatherings of women who had lost their mums, something shifted. There was relief in not having to explain. Comfort in shared understanding. Space to speak names out loud.
No fixing. No platitudes. Just presence.
Those moments showed me how much grief longs to be witnessed.
This is why I am now in the process of setting up a Community Interest Company called Still Her Daughter. It is born directly from my own loss and from the many stories I have since been trusted with. The CIC model is rooted in community benefit rather than profit, creating spaces where grief can be acknowledged gently and safely.
I often think about how different my own journey might have been if I had known I wasn’t alone. If someone had said, “This matters. You matter. Your loss deserves space.”
My mum may not be here, but she is everywhere in who I am. In the work I do. In the way I listen. In the way I hold others’ stories.
We never stop being daughters. We just learn how to carry our mothers with us.
If you’d like to know more, please contact Lynda:
Lynda Dullop
Founder (in formation), Still Her Daughter CIC
Email ldullop@icloud.com