Discover: Exploring the unexpected gifts grief can offer, and learning to discover their hidden significance.

I’m Suzanne—a mum, occupational therapist, and long-time listener to the quiet wisdom that families carry. Lead Together is a space where parents lead, services follow, and your vision for your child’s life is honoured from the start. You are the expert. I’m here to walk beside you.

Dear fellow parent,

Thank you for being here. Perhaps you’re arriving at the end of a long month — of meetings, emotions, or inner work. Maybe you feel both weary and quietly proud of how far you’ve come, even if “progress” doesn’t look like you expected.

Last time, we practiced adapting from doing to being, learning that rest and presence are not luxuries, but essential acts of care. This week, we arrive at Discover — the final stop in this month’s arc — and we listen for the gifts that grief can reveal.

In grief, I’ve discovered tenderness I didn’t know I had.

In grief, I’ve discovered patience, born of necessity.

In grief, I’ve discovered joy shining brighter because sorrow sits beside it.

Discovery doesn’t mean pretending grief is good or easy. It means noticing what grief also carries — the cracks through which new light enters.

Grief rarely arrives empty-handed. It doesn’t just take; it also leaves things behind — though often in odd wrapping. It leaves clarity about what matters most. It leaves deeper empathy for those walking similar paths.

When we slow down enough to look, these gifts become visible.They are not the kind of gifts we would wish for, but they are real.

Maybe grief has taught you how strong your love truly is. Maybe it’s shown you the beauty of small victories — a smile, a shared moment, a bit of peace. Maybe it’s shown you that your worth isn’t tied to outcomes, but to your capacity to stay present through uncertainty.

Each discovery is like a tiny seed dropped along the path. You may not see what it grows into yet — but it’s there, quietly taking root.

Discovery doesn’t cancel grief. The two coexist. We can cry and still notice beauty. We can be tired and still recognize the miracle of showing up again and again.

That’s the paradox of this journey: the more honestly we grieve, the more spacious our hearts become for joy.

This week, try this: Take a quiet moment — maybe before bed or in morning light — and ask: What has grief taught me this month? It might be a single word or image. Write it down.Then thank yourself for walking through this time with courage.

Also, have a read of this poem, Adrian Rice in this ‘The Silent Space’ talks about being present as his son has a hearing test. He “felt involved but helpless, hovering in that room, unable to lend him my ears”. This can be so difficult for us a parents watching as our children are analyzed, probed, tested, wanting to help but not being able to. So as you read the poem, check in and ask:

Which part of me recognises the ‘silent space’ described here? Which part wonders ‘what did I expect’? Which part watches with wonder at the child who is, even as you held a different image? If the part of you that loves this child as they are could speak, what would it say?

A Glimpse Ahead:

Next month, as winter deepens, we’ll begin a new journey together: Resting as You Are — learning from the wisdom of hibernation and the grace of doing less.

Before you close this email, take a breath for yourself, and a breath for your child.

Not the child in the reports.

The child who called you into becoming.

May we discover the quiet gifts of grief.

May we trust that even in loss, something new is growing.

May your grief breathe without apology.

May your words find those who most need gentleness.

And may a sleepy ladybird land near your teacup, reminding you that even small lives carry bright purpose.

Take all of the care,

Suzanne

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