At the beginning they tell you it will be unique. They can't say how long it will take, or exactly when you'll notice it. It might crush you, or it might not. There is no textbook, no right way to behave, no action to purge yourself. In fact the only consensus is that you are a loser. You've lost out, permanently. Oh, and they are sorry, so sorry.

These were the warnings I received last May. All from different sources, offered over cups of tea, written in cards, spluttered in tearful embraces. I lost my mother. Those words still jar in my mind. They still don't feel quite right somehow. I think it's the 'lost'. It gives the situation a sense of irresponsibility and impermanence. I lose hairbands, I lose coffee shop loyalty cards – I even lose keys, occasionally. All these are minor reparable events; a trip to Boots or the porter’s lodge is all it takes to undo the folly. You don't lose a person in the same way. They are taken from you.

My first thought every morning for three months was not 'I've lost my mum', but 'mum died.' I guess it's a manners thing. It's polite euphemism. “My mother is dead” is the same as saying “pretty bad, actually” when we are meant to say “I'm well thanks, you?”. The vocabulary of loss avoids the socially-awkward lead balloon “oh”. The euphemism gives your interlocutor a degree of cover. ‘Lost’ is cold and detached. ‘Dead’ is simply too corporeal and personal.

To speak of loss, and to characterise grief as defined by loss, again doesn't quite fit with me. My mother is no longer in my life; we can't go for coffee, I can't call to rant or ask for advice. But I still haven't lost her. She's there, always flitting through my consciousness. There is a certain expression I pull that's hers; I go to our coffee spots; blue flowers summon her image; Chanel No.5 her hugs. I know it's not the same, but it's all far too real to be described as a loss. Things have gained new meaning. Some make me smile while others cause me to pause momentarily. Always she's there.

Moreover, I've found so much since she died. I’ve asked questions I might never have got round to asking of people I'd probably never have thought to ask. I don't know how she felt on her wedding day, but I now know about her wedding-mania and the bridesmaid fittings. I’ve also learnt not to worry quite so much; my university essays no longer have the power to consume my week and ruin my skin. I've gained a little perspective, I guess, and a lot of rest because of it. I don't fear that I’m missing out, so much as not enjoying the moment. I wasted most of the last year of my relationship with my mum.

My Cambridge-centricity blinkered me. She didn't always understand, but I've the space now to realise she probably understood a lot more than I was willing to acknowledge then. Ironically, grief has made me a happier person through teaching me to be kinder to myself. I’m finally listening to my mum’s plea of “look after yourself, please.”

It's also taught me how much family matters; not just your biological, but especially the family you make for yourself. Because what they say is true: there is no right or wrong way to grieve. For me, mother figures are welcome. I know not for all. Family then, has gained a new sense too.

I was asked this week what moving on looked like to me – at what point did I think I’d be 'okay' again? Now that's a completely different but equally inadequate euphemism: moving on.

I am motherless now. Nothing can change that. I'd give anything to have her back again, but I know I never will. In that sense it's not going to be 'okay' but I'm not not 'okay' now. I'm different, I'm grieving. But as I hope I've explained, that doesn't mean I'm a loser.