The number 13 has always held a special place in my life. On November 13, I met Shaun, the love of my life, while backpacking in Australia from Canada. On December 13, I received my permanent resident visa for Australia. On June 13, we got married on a beautiful winter day. When our son Ethan was born on May 5, 2003, I was in Bed 13 at the maternity hospital. His birthdate adds up to 5+5+3! Luckily, I wasn’t superstitious.
Life was complete for many years. We loved travelling—skiing in the Canadian Rockies, visiting France, wandering through the markets in Provence, or savouring crêpes at the beachside in Brittany. Our life was full of love, laughter, and adventure. The day everything changed started with a phone call that shattered our world. Shaun called me at work, his voice unusually strained.
“Mel, I’ve been coughing up blood,” he said, trying to stay calm as I sensed the fear beneath his words.
In the early hours of 2011, I sat beside him as the doctor delivered the news. We were blindsided—stage 4 gastric cancer. The words felt like a death sentence. Stage four gastric cancer! May 13, 2013, was the day everything changed for me. At 3:30 pm, our kind priest from our local parish arrived, and Shaun suddenly opened his eyes. We looked at each other for a long moment. His breathing grew weaker, and with encouragement from our priest, with a few choked breaths, he passed away. His eyes never left me; he left the world peacefully, and I gently closed his eyes.
Tears I had held back for so long poured out. I couldn’t stop crying or let go of his hand, which had been our lifeline. I was numb and in shock after his death until his funeral. I had lost my soulmate and the only person I relied on for twenty years—and my biggest supporter. Shaun had always been my biggest cheerleader, encouraging me to take risks, advance, and shine. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel anger but instead a profound relief that his suffering had ended. This relief, mixed with overwhelming sadness and shock, created a fog of emotions that carried me through those first difficult days, weeks, and months. My world came to a standstill as I faced my new reality.
The most painful moment was holding Ethan, just 10 years old, as he sobbed during the funeral. His small body shook in my arms, his father’s handkerchief pressed to his eyes. His tears soaked into my black dress. I’d experienced loss before, but Ethan hadn’t. He was trying to understand why his Dad wasn’t here.
Holding our son, something became clear. Although I’d spent my career helping companies manage change, initially this felt different, but I soon realised they weren’t. This was about building his emotional strength so he could understand his identity and build an inner language and identity to help him cope with life without his father. I knew some of the alarming outcomes for young males raised without a father: poor mental health, suicide, and depression. Those thoughts became fixed in my mind. Guiding Ethan through his developmental years would become my purpose. My professional experience with change management suddenly felt deeply personal, as the skills I had been learning would be crucial for my son’s survival.
Fear quickly became my constant companion, bringing questions and feelings that affected how I handled our new reality. Was I strong enough? What would happen to Ethan if I weren’t here? Could I be both mother and father? I had many insecurities. My fears for Ethan went beyond typical parental worries. I was determined that his Dad’s loss would eventually build his strength and happiness, not diminish his potential.
Even months after my loss, I was only barely functioning in the fog of grief. My company offered me the opportunity to lead a significant change initiative, ironically titled “New Ways of Working.” As I worked on the project, I realised that the reactions I saw in my colleagues’ denial, resistance, confusion, and acceptance mirrored my grief. The stages of change resembled the stages of grief. Both are deeply emotional and personal, mourning what has been lost before embracing what is to come.
These new skills would become vital in my role and purpose in life moving forward, enabling me to be the best version of myself for Ethan and helping him do the same. The techniques I used to guide colleagues through change became the foundation for helping us both cope with grief. Creating safe spaces for tough conversations, validating feelings without judgment, and celebrating small wins; some of these methods worked both at home and in the boardroom.
On Ethan’s 21st birthday, he said, “Thank you, Mum, it was because of you I didn’t become another statistic.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Mum, do you know how many young males in my situation—growing up without a father—suffer from mental health issues, suicide, and depression? I’ve had anxiety at times, but I’ve mostly stayed grounded. It’s because of you,” he said. We held each other for a long time as I fought back tears.
That moment became a new mission: from my personal experience and professional insights, I knew I could help others break through disconnection.
Edited extract from PULSE: Empathy is Your Edge by Melinda McCormack.