Margaret Hale — Companion Journals

When my mother was widowed, I didn't know how to be useful to her. I bought her books. I called her. I sat with her on Tuesday afternoons when the house got too quiet. None of it felt like enough — and the books I'd brought her, the ones meant for "the grieving," were the wrong shape.

What she needed, I came to think, was a companion. Something that didn't ask her to be further along than she was. Something patient enough to wait.

I write the journals I wished I'd had to offer her.

A short essay about what these journals are trying to be →

Out now

The First Year

a daily companion for the year you weren't supposed to have

A page for each day you come to it — undated, so you start the day you start. Gentle, open-ended prompts that meet you where you are. Space to write a sentence, or a page, or nothing at all.

Six monthly sections that follow the real shape of the first year — shock, the world expecting something you can't give, untrusted good days, returning routines, identity, looking ahead. Ordinary Wednesdays given as much room as the days that hurt.

Built to sit on your nightstand. Quiet enough to ignore. Patient enough to wait.

What did you almost call him about today? Write it down here. He wouldn't have answered, but you almost did anyway, and that's worth knowing.

— Day 1

Read on Amazon →

What this book isn't

Not therapy

A companion, not a clinician. It doesn't diagnose or fix.

Not religious

Open to any faith, or none. The prompts ask, they don't preach.

Not stages

The year you're living, not a map. There's no schedule for grief.

Not ready for the journal yet?

Read seven small letters first.

A free email companion across one week — a taste of the voice The First Year carries, written to the people who aren't ready to journal yet, or who would rather be written to than write back. Then quiet. No firehose, no upsells.

Reply to any letter and it reaches a real person — me. Unsubscribe anytime; the link is in every email.

Thank you for writing in.

The first letter should land in your inbox within a few minutes. If it doesn't, check your spam folder and mark it "not spam" so the rest find their way to you. The next six arrive once a day for the following week, then they stop.

— Margaret

Coming soon · Book 2 in The First Year series

The Year After the Year

a weekly companion for the second year — when the world thinks you are done

For the people who read the first-year books, and then woke up in the year nobody wrote about. The first year had checkpoints. People remembered the date. This year has no checkpoints, and the people who were holding the line have lowered it without telling you.

Twelve months of pages, Month Thirteen through Month Twenty-Four. Weekly, not daily, because the second year asks for a lighter hand. Undated — start the week you start, skip what feels wrong for the season, come back when the season turns.

Not a book about healing. Not a chapter on moving on. A place to put down what is actually happening, in a year of grief that almost no one writes down.

For the people who read the first-year books, and then woke up in the year nobody wrote about.

— Dedication

Releasing in paperback this summer.

Caregiver Crash

a journal for the adult children doing this alone

Six months of pages, because six months is roughly how long it takes for the work to become invisible — to you, to your siblings, to the people who told you in the early days that you were doing such a good job. After that, it just becomes the way things are.

You don't have to start on day one. You don't have to do this every day. Some days you'll write a paragraph, some days a sentence, some days the date and nothing else. All of those count.

Not a self-care book. No chapter on how to ask for help. A place to put what is actually happening — the practical, the emotional, the things you can't say out loud to anyone who is in this with you.

The caregiver books all say to remember to breathe. This one says to write down what you didn't say out loud today, because the only person who'd understand isn't the person you're caring for.