I didn’t think I could survive the death of my husband, Graham. We met at university when I was 18, and for 35 years we made a great team. We both worked full-time and, while I organised our many marathon and backpacking trips abroad, and pursued my ambition of becoming an author and hypnotherapist, he supported me by taking care of most of the domestic chores and DIY. When he was seconded to Bahrain for eight months in 2003, he left me a typed, two-page instruction manual explaining how to operate the dishwasher, washing machine and TV (in fairness, it wasn’t simply a matter of pressing “on”).

When, in 2017, Graham was diagnosed with asbestos-related lung cancer and given between 18 months and five years to live, the shock was profound. But, once the initial terror had subsided, we made a choice: to live in hope, not fear. We vowed to make the most of whatever time Graham had left, rather than mentally rehearse or fear his death. We both continued working, travelling, running half marathons and seeing friends as much as we could.

We called our decision the Positivity Project, and one of the first things we did was buy a raspberry pink notebook in which to record everything that might give us hope: messages from loved ones wishing us well and reminding us how resilient we were, and the practical steps we were taking to support Graham’s immune system.

We also used our Positivity Book to list everything we’d been told was a plus regarding Graham’s prognosis: he had epithelioid mesothelioma, which was less aggressive and more treatable than other kinds of asbestos-related cancer; it hadn’t spread; and his immune system was extraordinarily healthy. The only negative factor that men with mesothelioma do not tend to live as long as women with the disease.

The Positivity Book also provided space for gratitude journaling, which I knew could reduce stress and anxiety and help prevent depression. Each day we challenged ourselves to come up with three things we were grateful to be (“in love, runners and alive,” I wrote), three things we were grateful to have (Graham once touchingly wrote, “Lisa – in bold, underlined, italic – my family and my friends”), and three things we’d done well that day. As a way to inoculate ourselves against despair, our book proved invaluable.

Four years later, after surgery, chemotherapy, radiotherapy and immunotherapy, the cancer spread to Graham’s brain and he died on 1 September 2021, at home, with me by his side, aged just 58. In the days that followed, I recall congratulating myself on still being alive after one week, then two, then a month, utterly astounded that I could endure the greatest loss imaginable. If I could have cried Graham back to life, I would have – but I couldn’t, so I had no option but to get busy living.

Within three months of Graham’s death, I’d sold our home of 27 years and moved from Croydon to the coastal town of Worthing. Soon after that, I relocated to South Africa for eight months, where I cared for my father, Anthony, who had developed dementia and prostate cancer. While there, three months before my dad died, my much loved younger sister, Loren, went missing in Portugal. Her body was found a week later, adrift in the Atlantic Ocean. These three domino deaths left me reeling: no longer a wife, sister or daughter, I felt stripped of my identity and was plagued by “What’s the point?” thoughts. I had fought to keep Graham alive and my father well looked after, but with no one left to fight for, my life seemed pointless. Being alive started to feel like a burden and I was struggling to find reasons to carry on.

When I told my close friend Sarah how bereft I was feeling, she understood exactly what I meant. “You’re not just starting a new chapter of your life,” she said. “You’re writing a whole new book.”

She was right. For years, Graham’s cancer, my sister’s bipolar disorder and my dad’s dementia and prostate cancer had dominated my narrative: it was time to reclaim authorship. I knew from a grief and bereavement workshop I had attended while Graham was ill that many bereaved people find that their world becomes smaller: invitations to social events often cease as people find it awkward being around someone who is grieving; friendships can cool when you are no longer part of a couple. The model of grief we learned about that most resonated with me is “growing around grief”.

Rather than shrinking over time, grief still takes up space in your life – but your life can expand around it if you make new friends, develop new interests, have new experiences, learn new skills and come to terms with your loss. Underneath the layers of grief, I knew I was a naturally happy person, and that to reclaim my old self I had to seek out old and new activities to make my heart soar.

The things I experimented with in an attempt to put my broken self back together again sound like lyrics from a rap song: reflexology, self-help psychology, kinesiology, astrology, knick-knack buying, intermittent crying, cold-water swimming, gong bath healing, hot stone massage, junk food self-sabotage. Nothing worked, although cold water swimming did give me new friendships and flood my bloodstream with a heady cocktail of dopamine and endorphins. Exiting the water felt like triumphantly crossing a marathon finish line, except that I didn’t have to run 26.2 miles first to experience the rush.

One evening, an anonymous quote popped up on Pinterest: “You need goals that give you goosebumps … a mission that makes it impossible to sleep, and irresistible to wake up. So, use excitement as your compass. It shows you exactly where to go.”

I’d first come across the idea of a compass of excitement – essentially intuition – at a self-development workshop run by Jamie Catto, a founding member of the band Faithless. Seeing it referenced again gave me an idea: I would use it to guide my choices. Whenever I was faced with a decision, I would tap into my compass, and tune in to how my body felt, rather than what my head said I “should” do. If it felt like “hell, yes!”, I’d lean in. If my heart sank like “hell, no!”, I’d withdraw.

What I didn’t realise when I began using my compass was that it would play a significant role in what I later learned was called “post-traumatic growth”: the positive psychological changes that some people experience after a traumatic event when they’ve been forced to re-evaluate their core beliefs, values and behaviours and, as a result, their priorities. The phenomenon was identified by psychologists in the 1990s and involves survivors of trauma forming stronger relationships, becoming more resilient, embracing new opportunities and gaining a deeper appreciation of life.

Guided by my inner compass, I stopped being a people pleaser and, for the first time in my life, began living completely authentically. I bid farewell to anyone who didn’t support, comfort, love or appreciate me based on how my compass reacted when I spent time with them. And, when I encountered new people whom I believed had the potential to become friends, it guided me: if my gut detected negativity or a lack of respect or kindness, I knew I had to protect my peace. For the first time, when I saw a red flag, I didn’t wait for the bunting, but simply – and quietly – exited stage left.

I knew Graham wanted me to meet a new partner, so I used my compass to steer my romantic choices, too. A handsome man with piercing blue eyes with whom I struck up a conversation on Brighton’s Undercliff Walk seemed promising, but something felt off. Even though he was single and good company, and the friend I was with was egging me on, my compass said no, so I didn’t suggest meeting up again.

What truly astounded me after my three bereavements was my resilience and ability to adapt. Graham hadn’t typed me up a manual during his illness as he’d done when leaving for Bahrain; to do so would have undermined our commitment to hope. After his death, I had to figure it all out for myself: how to keep the flat clean and tidy, get an MOT, inflate the car tyres, drill into walls (I nearly blinded myself when the drill bit buckled).

Now, four years on, I’m fluent in housework and take care of most chores myself. Graham had always been in charge of hiring tradespeople, but when the badly cracked tiled floor of my new flat needed to be replaced soon after I moved in, despite having been laid at about the same time as the eggs in my fridge, my trusty compass once again stood me in good stead. Two tilers ghosted me, one asked for photos and then refused to answer my calls, and only one showed up. Radu was Romanian, enjoyed chatting to me about the Transylvanian Bear Run (a marathon Graham and I had run in his homeland dressed as Dracula), and sent me a quote the very next day. I felt guilty accepting his quote as I had nothing to compare it with, but my compass said, “You can trust him – he’ll do a good job.” I hired Radu, and, three projects later, he’s still my “go-to guy”.

The most daunting decision I had to make concerned investing my inheritance. One highly recommended financial adviser all but salivated over the fees he’d be able to charge after 20 years: the equivalent of bequeathing him half my flat. My compass bellowed no!, so I endured the awkwardness of firing him and instead found someone more experienced who charged a fraction of what he did.

Finally, after many missteps and misadventures (including a yoga retreat led by a megalomaniac guru and attempts to join four different gospel choirs), my compass led me back to three things I’d always loved doing with Graham: camping, backpacking and running. While the former two weren’t nearly as much fun without him, I found that running, which I’d done mostly on my own as Graham was so much faster than me, still gave me the head space, stress relief and deep sense of achievement it always had. In 2025, I ran the Brighton Marathon in Graham’s honour – my first in seven years – carrying a small pouch of his ashes. I’ve since signed up for two more, and am aiming to complete 100 half marathons in the next 10 years, as well as a half Ironman triathlon in the next five.

Each of these goals sets the needle of my compass quivering. Grief remains – a big solid circle at the centre of my life – but around it stretches something wider and brighter, and it’s still growing.

Lisa Jackson is the author of Your Pace or Mine? and Still Running After All These Tears: A Runner’s Journey Through Grief (Summersdale, £12.99)