Grief rarely knocks once. Sometimes it moves in, rearranges the furniture, and dares you to keep living in your own house. That’s where we meet James: a man who fell back in love with an old friend turned husband, built a life around art and quiet rituals, and then watched that life tilt in a single sentence—“I’ve got cancer.” What follows isn’t tidy. It’s six months of chemo and courage, a final exhibition pulled together with fierce focus, and the tender, ordinary moments that made their days feel normal right up until they weren’t.
We talk about what happens after the funeral, when the casseroles stop and the rooms echo. James shares the two choices he felt every morning—stay under the duvet or get up—and why he kept choosing to get up. Therapy, honest friends, and swimming gave his body rhythm when his mind was frayed. Prayer, surprisingly, gave him language when words failed. He doesn’t claim a neat theology; he claims practice. Gratitude started as a way to stop resenting the love that hurt to lose and became a tool for seeing what remained: a roof overhead, working limbs, neighbours who show up, and the courage to admit “I’m not okay” without apology.
There’s legacy here too. Tim’s last exhibition wasn’t about applause; it was about leaving colour behind for the people he loved. That purpose steadied them both and points to a wider truth: creativity at the end of life can be a raft. We also step into the next hard choice—selling the home they made together, below the price he hoped for, because staying turned the house into a museum. Letting go becomes a second act of love, a bet on a future that hasn’t introduced itself yet. And at the end, James names the dragon he still carries: the imposter that says he’s not enough. He hears it, thanks it, and keeps walking.
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This Podcast is sponsored by Onlinevents
