Short Story Month has been sitting in the back of my mind for a while now. I've been meaning to write something personal, not demons or dark folklore this time―but grief. The kind that settles into your life like a fire and changes who you are. The truth is, the last two years have been incredibly emotional for me and my family, and I don't think I have truly opened up about it until now.
In 2024, I lost my sister to endometrial cancer. She was only thirty-five years old. Even now, what makes it inexplicably hard is how fast everything happened. She passed away only two weeks after receiving her diagnosis. There was no time to process anything properly. One moment we thought doctors would finally help her―and the next moment we were planning a funeral instead.
What still hurts deeply is knowing how badly she was failed. She had two large tumours, but because she was heavily overweight, doctors missed them. Symptoms were overlooked and explained away instead of properly investigated. I genuinely believe malpractice played a role in her death―and that is a hard thing to sit with. Especially when it comes from private healthcare in South Africa, where people trust they are paying for proper care and attention.
There are days where I want to name and shame every single doctor involved―where I want to drag the entire situation into the light and force accountability. I could probably start that fight if I wanted to, but grief is complicated. Because even if justice came tomorrow, it would not bring my sister back―it would not undo the shock of losing someone so suddenly.
Some days I manage well, other days it still hits me out of nowhere. That is the strange thing about grief. It never really leaves, instead it lingers in your bones and in the darker corners of your soul. And yes―believe what you like―we all have darkness in our souls.
People talk about healing as if it happens neatly over time, but that has not been my experience. Sometimes you are okay for weeks, and then suddenly something small breaks you open again. A memory. A photograph. A smell. A random moment that reminds you of that loss.
That is part of why I wanted to write a short story this month to honour her. Writing has always been the way I process things. Stories allow me to place emotions somewhere outside of myself for a little while. They help me breathe when everything feels too heavy. I think the story I want to write will focus on healing―honest healing. Just learning how to survive the loss and carry it differently over time.
I have been busy editing "The Devil’s Dance" as we move toward the final manuscript for production, which has been exciting but also exhausting. And while juggling all of that, I have also been working on my new romantasy series. And can I say, I honestly did not expect fantasy writing to challenge me as much as it has.
How difficult is it to build an entire fantasy world?
Historical fiction is different because history already gives you a structure. There are guidelines. You research what existed and work within those boundaries. Fantasy is the complete opposite. You have to create everything from nothing. The world, the politics, the creatures, the magic, the history, the rules. Every detail has to feel believable even though none of it is real. It has stretched me creatively in ways I never expected.
But maybe that is why writing still matters to me so much. Even during grief, anger, stress and exhaustion, stories continue to give me that escape...and I'm sure it's something we all need in life to carry on.
Circling back to my sister, I don't know if I will ever share the short story publicly once it is finished. Maybe I will―maybe I will simply keep it to myself. But I know this much, it will be for my her. For the life she should have had, and for the part of me that is still trying to understand how the world kept moving after losing her. Maybe in time I will write a book about her life―the life that she was destined for.