When robins are near: Game faces at work, grief and connection

On my desk I have a little glass robin, one made by Ed, a glassmaker friend of mine. Ed told me that, through time, glassmakers made these little birds to be their companions in the studio as they work.?

After my husband Tom died, I moved this robin onto my desk, to be my companion. Tom used to sit opposite me, and we kept each other company through the working day, particularly during lockdown when we were both based at home.?

Today, as I was writing, I glanced up to see my robin, twinkling in the (rare) morning sunshine. This suddenly sparked a memory for me - from a time when my work life and my real life crashed together when I was at work, in public, in a situation that could have been really difficult to manage.

I thought about that moment and how much it changed me for the better, in terms of knowing not only when it really is ok not to be ok in a work situation, but also when it is positively important to share the load we carry with others around us.?

We all have times at work when we are going through great stress or sadness, when we have to pull our "game face" on to get through it - when actually the very best thing, the most generous and self-less thing we can do - is to take our game face off - and let our real face show.?

In fact, I think there is a huge reservoir of learning, connection and hope that can be drawn from?taking risks and being, if only briefly, who we really are when we are at work.

So, with that in mind, I am going to share what happened to me, and by extension, those I was with, one sunny Autumn morning in 2022.??

I share this story in trepidation and in the hope that maybe, just maybe, it might show that, with care, opening up about feelings at work can really help us all.

So, here we go....

It is November 4th?2022. I am chairing a session in the Tipi, a tent outdoor meeting space, at the Eden Project. It is the last day of a 3 day event called Anthropy, where leaders have gathered to discuss how business and the voluntary sector can help build a better future for everyone.

There are about 25 people in the session, and we are looking at the role philanthropy can play in this agenda. I work for the philanthropist Ajaz Ahmed, a truly great leader who is making a big difference supporting children and families in crisis. In our work together, we encounter stories of hope, leadership, kindness and community building, so I am sharing some of these with the delegates, while encouraging everyone present to dig deep with examples from their own practice.?

So far, so normal. But. Today is my second wedding anniversary and the first after Tom died. At the back of my mind, I am remembering our wedding day, when Tom and I walked together, hand in hand, to the Register Office to get married. I see us, in my mind's eye, dressed in our favourite clothes, the sun shining. In the tent, as I lead the session forward, my heart starts to beat faster, and my chest feels crushed, as I remember Tom, as I remember us, as we were, before cancer came and destroyed everything.

In the session, I am drawing people into the conversation on philanthropy, value, community, looking for hooks and bridges in the conversation to keep it flowing and to pull out useful points. Behind my game face, though, my heart is breaking.

Suddenly, through the gap between the wall of the tent and the ground, I spot a flash of movement. I look harder and see, there, hopping forward and into the tent, a tiny robin.?

Many of you will have heard the expression "when a robin appears, a loved one is near". The little bird bobbed forward, unnoticed by anyone else.?

"What if that is Tom?" The question fills my mind in an instant, "what if he has come here today to wish me happy anniversary". Rev Richard Coles and Joan Didion respectively write of the madness and magical thinking of grief. Is this mad and magical? Maybe. But it's happening anyway and I can't stop it.?

My thoughts rush at a thousand miles an hour, as my game face nods as a delegate speaks about their work. It can't be Tom, I think. But then again, it might be. It might be and if it is, I can't just ignore him, after everything that happened. After we walked together to his last breath, after he died and left. After this new life without him began. I am starting to suffocate as the wave of grief climbs behind my good old game face. The little bird waits.?

The session is in full flow. The bird is still here. It's now or never. I decide to take the risk. I put my hand up and ask if we can stop for a minute.?

The robin turns its head and looks at me. I apologise and say, as quickly as I can that my beloved Tom has died, that it's my wedding anniversary and a robin is here.?

Silence. The room waits for me, the delegates surprised.?

I gabble on. I say it could be that thing about loved ones being near and, that I am so, so sorry to break the session for a moment - but? I can't ignore it.?

Everyone looks at me - waiting - but warmth starts to seep into that chilly space.?

In the next beat, I look at the bird, who tilts its head and looks directly at me.??

"Happy Anniversary, Tom" I say, "I love you". I blow a kiss towards the bird and it bobs around briefly and then flies away.

The spell is broken as my kind, patient generous delegates?start clapping, start cheering and there is a moment of true solidarity, true friendship as we turn to each other to take a moment, in the moment.

Then, with thanks for their understanding and patience, I take the delegates back into the session and we all get back to work.

At the end, after the summary and conclusions, most of the delegates hang back, to talk with me and/or each other, about the robin, about grief, about their own loss and how that moment, in all its strangeness, helped them, too. Two other people had recently been bereaved and dearly needed to see that that little robin in that moment too, masking as they were, their own grief.

I could have just waded on, stuffed my sadness and anxiety deep down and ignored that little bird but I didn't. I couldn't. I trusted my instinct and I took the risk. I am so glad that I did.?

The sunshine is glinting on my little glass robin again - as I reach for my notes from another meeting - and work on.?

To everyone grieving, struggling and just hanging in there today, my love to you and my promise that, even though it feels super strange and weird, never be afraid to be yourself in times that really matter. You never know, you just might help someone else, too.?

Loads of love,

Nicola?x