Being Better - Anne Moir

Being Better - Anne Moir Grief Trauma Specialist, Health Coach & Wellbeing Strategist. Specialising in behavioral changes that
support health and healing after loss

12 years ago, I didn’t want to get out of bed.Today, I run a business helping others face the same obstacle.But here's w...
23/02/2026

12 years ago, I didn’t want to get out of bed.

Today, I run a business helping others face the same obstacle.

But here's what nobody tells you about the journey between those two points:

It's not linear.
It's not pretty.
It's not inspirational most days.

Year 1: Survival mode. Adrenaline. Barely breathing.
Year 3: Still wobbly. Learning to navigate as "the widow."
Year 5: Faking it well enough to fool strangers.
Year 10: Actually choosing the next right thing. Thriving — most days.
Year 12: Building something to help others on this path.

The wellness industry would have you believe transformation happens in 30-day challenges and morning routines.

But when your world has shattered?

Transformation happens in:
→ The first shower you take after days of not caring
→ The meal you eat because you know you should, not because you want to
→ The moment you laugh and don't immediately feel guilty
→ The day you wake up and realize you want to be here

I'm building something for people in those trenches.

A website. A community. Resources that understand wellness after loss looks nothing like wellness before it.

Because "self-care" when you're grieving isn't bubble baths and gratitude journals.

It's surviving today.
Then tomorrow.
Then learning — slowly — to thrive again.

That's why I do what I do now. 🖤


Everything was cardboard.I thought I was imagining it. Going crazy. Adding "broken taste buds" to my growing list of gri...
22/02/2026

Everything was cardboard.

I thought I was imagining it. Going crazy. Adding "broken taste buds" to my growing list of grief symptoms.

Turns out, I wasn't imagining anything.

Research shows grief literally changes your sensory processing.

The chronic stress of bereavement affects your:
→ Taste and smell perception
→ Hearing sensitivity
→ Pain threshold
→ Temperature regulation
→ Even your vision

Your nervous system is so overwhelmed trying to keep you alive that it deprioritises the "non-essential" functions.

Like enjoying food.
Like noticing beauty.
Like feeling pleasure.

This is why everything feels grey after loss.
It's not just emotional.
It's physiological.

Your body is in survival mode.
And survival mode doesn't care about fine dining or sunsets.

When my taste finally started returning — months later — it felt like a betrayal.

How dare my body start enjoying things again?
How dare I feel anything other than grief?

That guilt nearly undid me.

Until I learned: your senses returning isn't betrayal.
It's your nervous system slowly, carefully, deciding it's safe enough to come back online.

It's healing.
Even when it doesn't feel like it.


Mortified doesn't cover it.That moment taught me something grief doesn't warn you about:It splits you in two.𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 ...
21/02/2026

Mortified doesn't cover it.

That moment taught me something grief doesn't warn you about:

It splits you in two.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝗬𝗼𝘂:
The brave widow who holds it together.
Who smiles when people ask "how are you coping?"
Who says "I'm okay" because it's easier than the truth.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂:
The one who collapses when the front door closes.
Who can't breathe for the silence.
Who asks the empty night "HOW? WHY? WHAT THE F*CK?"

We learn to wear masks in public.
Not because we're fake.
But because grief is ugly and raw and makes people deeply uncomfortable.

We perform. We pretend. We protect — ourselves and others.

Then night comes.
The mask drops.
And finally — FINALLY — you can stop pretending.

That's when grief gets real.
That's when healing actually happens.

Because you can't heal what you won't feel.

To everyone wearing their brave face today:
To everyone who knows they'll break down tonight once they're finally alone:

You are not weak.
You're doing exactly what you need to do.

One face for the world.
One face for the healing.

Both are valid. Both are you.


A landmark study followed 4,486 widowers over 55. Within the first 6 months of losing their wives, 213 died — 40% higher...
20/02/2026

A landmark study followed 4,486 widowers over 55. Within the first 6 months of losing their wives, 213 died — 40% higher than expected for married men the same age.

40%.

Researchers call it the "widowhood effect."

Here's what happens in your body when you lose someone:

→ Cortisol (stress hormone) floods your system
→ Your immune function drops significantly
→ Heart rate and blood pressure spike
→ Inflammatory markers increase
→ Sleep architecture gets disrupted
→ Your body literally goes into survival mode

A 2013 Harvard study found surviving spouses are 66% more likely to die in the first 3 months after loss.

This isn't weakness. This is biology.

Your body is responding to one of the most stressful events a human can experience. Your nervous system doesn't know the difference between a tiger chasing you and your world falling apart.

When I lost Stephen, I didn't know any of this.

I just knew my body felt like it was shutting down.
I thought I was broken.
I thought I was doing grief wrong.

I wasn't.

My body was doing exactly what bodies do under extreme stress.

This is why I became a Health Coach specialising in grief.

Because understanding what's happening in your body is the first step to supporting it through the hardest season of your life.

You're not broken. You're grieving.
And your body needs a different kind of care right now.


There's no handbook for:→ Explaining to your 6-year-old why Daddy isn't coming home→ Sleeping alone in a bed built for t...
19/02/2026

There's no handbook for:
→ Explaining to your 6-year-old why Daddy isn't coming home
→ Sleeping alone in a bed built for two
→ Ticking "widow" on forms when you still feel married

At 37, I was supposed to be planning family holidays.
Not funerals.

At 37, I was supposed to be building a future with my husband.
Not learning to survive without him.

At 37, I became a statistical outlier.

The average age of widowhood is 59.
I beat that by 22 years.
(Not the kind of record you want to break.)

Here's what 13 years has taught me:

Young widowhood is lonely in a specific way. Your friends don't understand. Your parents don't know what to say. Society doesn't have a box for you.

But it also gave me something I didn't expect:

Time.

Time to rebuild.
Time to learn how to carry this weight.
Time to figure out who I am without him.
Time to help others walking this same brutal path.

If you became a widow or widower younger than expected — I see you.

Your grief is valid.
Your isolation is real.
And you are not alone.



After Stephen died, everyone had suggestions:"Try yoga!""Have you considered meditation?""You should really focus on sel...
19/02/2026

After Stephen died, everyone had suggestions:
"Try yoga!"
"Have you considered meditation?"
"You should really focus on self-care."

They meant well. They really did.

But here's what they didn't understand:

Some days, having a shower WAS the workout.
Getting out of bed deserved a medal.
Feeding myself anything — even toast at 4pm — counted as nutrition.

Traditional wellness assumes you're starting from wholeness.
It assumes you have energy to give.
A body that cooperates.
The will to care.

When your foundations have been shattered, you need a different blueprint.

So I became a Health Coach who specialises in the thing no one talks about:

Wellness when your world has imploded.

Not green smoothies and gratitude journals.
But the raw, unglamorous work of rebuilding your health foundations when life's foundations lie in rubble.

12 years later, I'm building something for people who need this different approach.

A website. A community. Resources that meet you where you actually are — not where wellness culture thinks you should be.

Because wellness after loss isn't about optimising.
It's about surviving first.
Then slowly, gently, learning to thrive again.

If traditional wellness advice has felt like it's gaslighting your grief — you're not broken. You just need a different approach."
Follow along. I'm building something for us.
🖤



13 years ago my husband died.Some anniversaries you mark with celebration.This one I marked with remembrance.13 years si...
17/02/2026

13 years ago my husband died.

Some anniversaries you mark with celebration.

This one I marked with remembrance.

13 years since my world imploded.

13 years since I became a widow at 37.

13 years since our three boys lost their dad.

We had 13 months from diagnosis to death.

13 months of fighting.

13 months of hoping.

13 months of watching our mapped-out future turn to ash.

24 hours before we were meant to board a plane to start our new life abroad, cancer had other plans.

Bags packed. Boys excited. Dreams shattered.

Stephen, you gave me so much in our time together.

You gave me three incredible boys who carry pieces of you in everything they do.

You gave me a purpose I didn't ask for — to be better. To help others who walk this brutal path.

13 years later, the grief still weighs exactly the same.

But my legs — the ones that buckled those first years — they're titanium now.

You'd be proud of the men our boys have become.

You'd love that they're thriving.

As for me... I know you understand why I do what I do now.

You always did.

Whether it's year 1 or year 30:

The weight doesn't get lighter.

But you learn to carry it.

Miss you, Stephen.

Always.

💔



A

&

13 years ago today, Stephen died.Some anniversaries you mark with celebration.This one I mark with remembrance.13 years ...
16/01/2026

13 years ago today, Stephen died.
Some anniversaries you mark with celebration.
This one I mark with remembrance.
13 years since my world imploded.
13 years since I became a widow at 37.
13 years since our three boys lost their dad.
We had 13 months from diagnosis to death.
13 months of fighting.
13 months of hoping.
13 months of watching our mapped-out future turn to ash.
24 hours before we were meant to board a plane to start our new life abroad, cancer had other plans.
Bags packed. Boys excited. Dreams shattered.
Stephen, you gave me so much in our time together.
You gave me three incredible boys who carry pieces of you in everything they do.
You bought me a red dress in a mall we never should have been in – insisting I'd wear it to your cancer-free party.
We never got to host that party.
So I wore the dress to your funeral.
While you partied it up in heaven.
You gave me a purpose I didn't ask for
To be better.
To help others who walk this brutal path.
13 years later, the grief still weighs exactly the same.
But my legs – the ones that buckled those first years – they're titanium now.
You'd be proud of the men our boys have become.
Super stoked that our eldest is excited about starting teacher training next week – History, Social Sciences and Math. Just like his dad.
You'd love that our middle son has found his niche, pairing his passion for e-sports with his psychology degree, a career path that will make a hugely positive impact to so many peoples lives.
You'd be bursting with pride that our youngest has become a math whiz and has already gained international recognition for his hard work. (Your genes. Obviously.)
They are all thriving!
As for me....I know you understand why I do what I do now.
You always did.
To everyone marking an anniversary today – whether it's year 1 or year 30:
The weight doesn't get lighter.
But you learn to carry it.
Miss you, Stephen Moir.
Always.
💔

"It's not that your burden gets any lighter. It's just that your legs get stronger."My friend dropped this truth bomb on...
19/11/2025

"It's not that your burden gets any lighter. It's just that your legs get stronger."

My friend dropped this truth bomb on me after Stephen died.

She'd experienced her own significant loss several years earlier. Her words landed different than everyone else's platitudes.

I heard her.

I believed her.

I held tight to that wisdom.

Especially on those groundhog days when my legs were buckling. When carrying grief, single parenting three boys, and trying to simply breathe felt like hauling a mountain on my shoulders.

Everyone else kept telling me it would "get easier with time."

Easier??

Here's what actually happened (for me):



The weight didn't change. Stephen is still gone. My boys still miss their dad. The future we planned is still ashes.



But something else happened.

My body adapted.

Not because I wanted it to. Because survival demanded it. My nervous system literally rewired itself around the weight.



Today my grief weighs exactly the same as it did on day one. (Anyone who says it gets lighter is selling something)

But my legs have done the impossible.

They've learned to carry a weight that initially felt like it was going to kill me.

12 years later, I can tell you exactly what stronger legs look like:

Year 1: Crawling through broken glass. Pretending I was fine while fooling absolutely no one who really knew me. Fantasizing about time machines. Coping – barely.



Year 3: Walking like a baby giraffe. Still wobbly but learning to navigate the world as a card-carrying widow. Surviving – just.



Year 5: Faking it well enough to fool strangers. Still stopping to rest every few steps. Still needing to remind myself I could do this. Adapting.



Year 10: Moving with purpose. The weight is still there, but I'd learnt how to distribute it. Actively choosing the 'next right thing.' Actually thriving.



Year 12: (Today) My knees still buckle sometimes when I think about everything we lost. Parenting our boys without him still guts me. (Yes, they're men now but they're still our boys.)



My legs?

They're titanium now.

They carry a weight that should have killed me on day one.

My grief weighs exactly the same as it did when Stephen died.

But I can carry it now. Walk with it. Sometimes even dance with it.



To everyone whose legs are buckling right now: This is your nervous system doing exactly what it needs to do. Building strength you don't want but desperately need.



You're not weak because you're crawling - You're becoming titanium too.



So, my friend was right - and now I find myself in her shoes – the one who's walked far enough ahead to turn back and say:



**Your legs will hold you**



Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they will learn to carry what feels impossible.



Mine did.

Yours will too.



Being BETTER - From Surviving to Thriving: Wellness Foundations for Life After Loss



It's possible. I'm living proof.

(Some days barely, but that counts too.)

Two weeks after Stephen died, I was at my 6-year-olds cricket game. One of the dad’s asked how my week had been – an inn...
28/10/2025

Two weeks after Stephen died, I was at my 6-year-olds cricket game.
One of the dad’s asked how my week had been – an innocent enough question.
I tried really hard to construct a coherent reply.
I was convinced a throw away answer could just roll off my tongue, and I could get on with pretending that life was just ‘peachy’.

I was half a sentence in, and I burst into tears.
I was mortified; the dad, he had no idea what was going on.

I tried to compose myself, struggling to breathe: the dad stood there wondering ‘What the…?’

Eventually (in as few words as possible) I explained that my sons Dad had just died and well.... more tears.

For the most part (in the beginning) I ran on pure adrenaline, especially to get through the really hard bits - Funeral. Lawyers. Insurance. Everyone needs something signed, decided, sorted.

But in the early days, there were also plenty of moments and situations that caught me off guard. Out of necessity, I learnt how to navigate these to avoid turning into a blubbering mess and making more strangers feel wholly uncomfortable.

What I quickly learnt was that while grief shatters you and your world into a million pieces, it also splits you in two.

The Public You
The brave widow. The one who (after a few weeks and many failed attempts) manages to hold it together in public. Who doesn't break down in the supermarket. Who smiles bravely when people ask, "how are you coping?"

&

The Private You
The one who collapses the second the front door closes. Who can't breathe for the silence. Who asks the quiet, empty night, "HOW? WHY? WHAT THE F*CK?" hoping for different answers.

Reality: grief is ugly and raw and makes people deeply uncomfortable.

Over time and distance, we learn to wear masks in public – mostly to protect both ourselves and other from embarrassment and being stuck in awkward conversations.

We perform. We pretend. We say, "I'm okay"!

Cause it’s way easier than being Open, Honest Real and Raw in public

Then night comes.
You are at home, safe.
And finally – FINALLY – you can stop pretending.

That's when grief gets REAL. The RAW truth that you're alone with the deafening absence. When there's no audience for your brave face.

When you are ready, not on anyone else timeline, when you have made your way past the ‘running on adrenaline’ phase, in private, in pieces, in your own messy way…..it will be time to feel.

It's brutal.
It's necessary.
And in those private moments, when you let grief rip you OPEN - healing happens.

The reality is - you can't heal what you won't feel.

Time doesn't fix it. Alcohol doesn't fix it. Pretending doesn't fix it.

Feeling it hurts – a hurt you wouldn’t wish on anyone BUT it a very big part of how you move forward (not on).

To everyone wearing their brave face today at work or at school pick up.
To everyone who knows they will breakdown tonight once they get home and are finally alone.
You are not weak.
It's your nervous system doing exactly what it needs to do.

After Stephen died, everything shifted.No surprise there – grief rewires you completely. But one change caught me off gu...
16/10/2025

After Stephen died, everything shifted.

No surprise there – grief rewires you completely. But one change caught me off guard: I couldn't tolerate small talk anymore.

Gossip. Weather chat. Surface-level anything.
**ARRRGGGHH!!**

I craved **REAL** conversations. Raw ones. The kind that skip the pleasantries and dive straight into what makes us human.

Health. Habits. Why we tick the way we do. How to BE BETTER.

Anything else felt like theft – stealing precious moments I couldn't afford to waste.

See, grief slapped me with a brutal truth: Time here is stupidly short. Stephen got 13 months from diagnosis to death. That's it.

Suddenly I felt this crushing urgency. **Carpe diem on steroids.**

But here's the kicker – grief also left me exhausted. Bone-deep, can't-lift-my-head exhausted.

So there I was: Desperate to squeeze every drop from life while barely able to function. Try making sense of that contradiction.

Months of stumbling between these extremes taught me something:

My new perspective had teeth. Sharp ones.

Sometimes it isolates me. (Small talk is social glue, turns out.)

Sometimes I judge myself – and others – for "wasting" time.

Sometimes it pushes me further than I'm ready for.

Sometimes it paralyzes me completely.

I can't unsee what grief showed me. Can't pretend time is infinite when I know better.

But fighting this transformation? That feels like dishonoring Stephen's memory.

So I've adapted. Embraced even.

I still dodge small talk when possible. But when someone's ready to go deep? To be open, honest, real and raw?

That's where I live now.

In those conversations that matter.
In the connections that count.
In the moments that honor what loss taught me.

One real conversation at a time.

h

I wore red to Stephen's funeral.Not because I was making a statement.Not because I'm rebellious.But because of a promise...
09/10/2025

I wore red to Stephen's funeral.

Not because I was making a statement.
Not because I'm rebellious.
But because of a promise cancer stole from us.

24 hours before boarding our flight to start our new life abroad, Stephen got diagnosed.
Our bags were packed.
Our boys were excited.
Our future was mapped out.

Gone.

Instead of house-hunting in a new country, we spent Christmas with friends, pretending everything was normal.

Knowing it might be his last.

At a mall one afternoon – in a city we'd never call home – Stephen found me a red summer dress. I wasn't convinced. It wasn't on sale. We had bigger things to worry about.

But he insisted.

"You'll wear it to my cancer-free party."

His certainty made me believe.

Four months later came the specialist's confession: "We should have operated sooner. The radiation gave it time to spread."

Stage 4.
Metastasized.
WHOOPS???

That doctor's visible distress is etched in my brain with permanent marker. But Stephen and I? We were beyond distressed.

We had a party planned.
I had the dress.

We fought. God, how we fought.

And somehow – the specialist called it a miracle – the tumors disappeared. Primary gone. Liver mets gone.

But we never heard "cancer-free."
Stephen never got his party.

13 months after diagnosis, one week after what should have been our second Christmas abroad, he died.

Summer funeral.
Red dress in my closet.

I knew if I didn't wear it then, I'd never wear it anywhere.

Some people understood. Some didn't. Some probably thought I'd lost my mind along with my husband.

But here's what they didn't know:

It was his funeral.
He was finally cancer-free.

So I wore the party dress.

To everyone making unconventional grief choices: Your reasons are yours. Your pain is yours. The people who matter will understand.

Sometimes the most profound acts of love look nothing like what people expect.

Address

EARTH
Christchurch
8025

Website

https://stan.store/BeingBETTER-AnneMoir

Alerts

Be the first to know and let us send you an email when Being Better - Anne Moir posts news and promotions. Your email address will not be used for any other purpose, and you can unsubscribe at any time.

Contact The Practice

Send a message to Being Better - Anne Moir:

Shortcuts

Share

Share on Facebook Share on Twitter Share on LinkedIn
Share on Pinterest Share on Reddit Share via Email
Share on WhatsApp Share on Instagram Share on Telegram

Category

Anne Moir & Gnosis, Praxis, Entelechia

Who am I?

First and foremost, I am Mum to 4 gorgeous boys. My sons are my “WHY”. They are literally the reason I get up in the morning, so I can get them to school/Uni on time but also figuratively. I want and need to model to them, that despite whatever trails they may face, that there is always hope, that they always have options and that what ever they are going through can be turned into something they can use to make them a better person. I want them to know that no matter how tough/confusing/confronting/challenging life might get, ultimately they are in control of how they act and react to any given situation. I need then to understand that their actions and reactions to each and every situation they face, can have the potential to play a huge part in how their future will unfold. My role (as see it) is to help them to discover their passions and support them in their dreams, gifts, talents and abilities so they can become the best version of who and what they have been created to do and be. (Phew - wish me luck)

At the beginning of 2013, life as we knew it, came to a crashing halt. After a hideous and courageous battle, I lost my husband (Stephen) to cancer. I lost my soulmate and best friend, our boys (6, 9 and 12 at the time) lost their cherished Father, we collectively lost the amazing future we had all mapped, out that was lying there just in reach (and had worked so,so hard for) and the world lost a great and fearless leader and stunningly perfect gentleman.

It was the very worst of times.