A 1.5KG STEAK: AND WHAT GRIEF TAUGHT ME ABOUT LOVE

Love doesn't disappear after death.

It just changes. In my case, it's deepened. And I think I've inherited a little "fuck around and find out" attitude from you, Brodie. And, I like it.

Today marks six months since you left this earth. This is my reflection on life without you.

Grief doesn't give a shit about your business plan.

The last three months of 2025 were brutal. I couldn't work properly. Couldn't show up. Couldn't be consistent. What has been consistent? My body's grief response. Six months of bleeding. Wide-eyed at 3am staring at the ceiling. My heart breaking and rebuilding in the same breath. My tears telling truths I couldn't speak.

"Grief doesn't give a shit about your business plan."

Here's the truth about grief:

Some days I talk about you with glee. Joy. Side-splitting laughter. Seconds later, the pain hits so hard I can't breathe. No logic. No pattern. No warning. Totally unpredictable.

Being in the field I work in - sex, intimacy, love - has been brutal. And beautiful. I didn't realise how much I referenced you/us in my teachings until I had to change direction mid-session because the emotions were rising. Not because I'm ashamed. Because my clients deserve my full presence.

Though sometimes I couldn't hold it together. And they witnessed my raw grief. The deepest expression of love I have for you. They got to see what real love looks like. That matters.

You knew I would kick a coffin over if I had to

Within days of your death, literal days, I was asked to renounce my position as your executor. Wait. What?. We hadn't even had a funeral. I was in the depths of grief while others were focused on money and power. I could hear your voice: "Not a fucking chance." One of your favourite sayings. I used it often for the next three months as the most ridiculous, time-wasting legal fight started over your legally binding document.

Some people told me to let it go. "It's not your problem."

Not me, I fought. You knew I would. You clearly warned me: "She'll give you a hard time." I remember my naive reply: "No, it'll be OK, we get along just fine." The look on your face. The way you rolled your eyes into another dimension. Burned into my brain. You knew I'd handle what was coming. You knew I wouldn't fold. You knew I wouldn't be manipulated. You knew I'd stand strong. So I did. And I thoroughly enjoyed telling people to go fuck themselves - legally and personally. Even when it was emotionally exhausting.

"You knew I would handle what was coming. You knew I'd stand strong. So I did."

Handling your affairs was never a problem. If I'm honest, it's been an honour. I've laughed as I unpacked your decision-making in those last 12 or so months. I love the 'go fuck yourself' way you left this world. It's brought me so much joy. I've never been more fucking proud of you.

I know you're watching. Too many signs to deny it.

Dealing with your death has been hard. But dealing with your life? Harder. Finding out what you protected me from. Who you protected me from. The mental manipulation. The coercive control. The emotional toll. I know everything, Brodie. And I mean everything. I read your writings. I'm a smart woman but I was clueless to the depth of the hold this had on you and how love was disguised as control. I'm sorry you felt you had to keep that from me. There were signs. But I never truly understood until now. It explains so much, my boy.

Discovering this has only deepened my love for you more!

Recently, I bought a 1.5kg tomahawk steak. The kind that would make you grin like an idiot. You loved meat. You loved salt. I miss the stupid little things. Your quirks. Your appetite. Your cheekiness. Your humour. Your presence. I will giggle eating it, knowing how absurdly ridiculous it is for one person - but that's the point. Who buys a steak as a sign of love? Weird, I know. But it's the truth. Brodie loved meat this much.

"Real love doesn't fold when things get hard. It doesn't disappear when it's inconvenient. It fights. Even after death. Especially after death."

Here's what grief has taught me about love:

Real love doesn't fold when things get hard. It doesn't disappear when it's inconvenient. It fights. Even after death. Especially after death.

You taught me that love isn't performance. It's not going through the motions. It's showing up fully - messy, vulnerable, imperfect - and being real even when it's uncomfortable. It's deeply respecting each other's choices while knowing that all we had to do was look at each other and we just knew. We had no insecurities. No confusion. No wobbles. Nothing but love for each other and our choices. We never did things to deliberately hurt each other. Ever. But the one thing you hands-down trumped me on was how fiercely you protected me. The kind of protection women only dream of. And I thank you for that.

You protected me fiercely when you were here. I'm protecting you fiercely now that you're gone. That's what real love does.

I love you, Brodie. Always.

READ: MY FUCKHEAD OUR LOVE STORY