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

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.

I made some spectacularly bad decisions after Stephen died.Decisions that made people whisper.Judge.Worry.The day he die...
04/10/2025

I made some spectacularly bad decisions after Stephen died.

Decisions that made people whisper.
Judge.
Worry.

The day he died, I made a pact with myself: No one was going to tell me how to grieve. I was going to do it on my own terms.

My world had been turned upside down and I NEEDED control.
Any control.
Over anything.

I had supporters. I had critics. But mostly I just got on with it my way – no matter what anyone thought.

The judgment hurt like hell.
Some well-meaning.
Some misguided.
All uninvited.

Here's what they didn't know: Grief literally rewires your brain. Your amygdala goes haywire. Blood flow to your prefrontal cortex – the part that makes good decisions – gets choked off.

There's an actual physiological reason why you make terrible choices when grief has you by the throat.

I didn't need cheerleaders telling me I was doing great.
I didn't need critics telling me I was doing it wrong.

What I needed?

Unconditional love.
Understanding.
Patience.

Years later, I can see the truth: No one was walking in my shoes. No one I knew had become a widow at 37 with three young boys.

It seems ridiculous now that I expected anyone to understand what was happening in my head.

The people who helped most?

They were there no matter what bizarre decision I made with my grief-ravaged brain. They loved me through the chaos.

I was a basket case.
But at the center of that tornado, I was still me.

Now when someone I know is grieving, especially in those early days/weeks/months/years, I don't judge.

I've walked my walk.
Theirs will be different.

If you have someone navigating grief: Don't try to fix them. Don't advise them. Don't criticize them.

It will fall on deaf ears.

Unless they're causing irreparable harm, just be the person who loves them no matter what.

The intensity will soften.
And they'll never forget who stood by them when their brain couldn't be trusted.

To everyone judging someone's grief choices: Your loved one's brain is literally broken right now. Love them anyway.

That's the only job that matters.

The phone rang exactly 7 days after Dad died.A polite (almost too polite) representative from the local '_ _ _ _ _ _ _ ...
30/09/2025

The phone rang exactly 7 days after Dad died.

A polite (almost too polite) representative from the local '_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _’

The same organisation that had helped during Mums illness 10 years earlier.

They wanted to discuss my "inheritance options."

(How did they even know Dad had died?)

The above wee story was one told to me by a close friend, and I am sure many of you may have similar tales to tell.



Seven. Days. WHAT THE??????



That's not support. That's predatory.



Here's what disgusts me most: They know exactly what they're doing.



Studies show we're 40% more susceptible to suggestion in acute grief. Our prefrontal cortex literally goes offline. We're running on pure amygdala - all emotion, no brakes.



The exploiters know this. They're counting on it.

They wrap exploitation in caring words.

They weaponize your guilt.

They know you're not thinking straight.



After nearly 13 years of being a card carrying 'Widow's Club' member, I've seen it all:



• Funeral directors pushing the most expensive casket "because you loved them"

• Investment companies demanding probate for no legally justifiable reason

• "Healers" promising to connect you with your loved one - for a price



Your grief is sacred. It's not a sales opportunity!!!!!



Here's my filter now: Are they here for my healing or their harvest?



If they're measuring my pain in profit margins, that's not support – it’s just plain cruel.



To everyone navigating fresh loss: You don't owe anyone your money, time, or guilt.

Your only job is to survive today.





"I heard from my neighbour's aunty's mailman's mum who doesn't even live here but saw a private post..." Stop. Just stop...
21/09/2025

"I heard from my neighbour's aunty's mailman's mum who doesn't even live here but saw a private post..."



Stop. Just stop.



Over the last couple of weeks in NZ, a family tragedy became a gossip free-for-all.

Within hours:

• Everyone had "insider facts" (they didn't)

• Every second person thought they knew how the police should have delt with it 'better'.

• Media wanted photos of where kids had hidden for 4 years.

• Random psychologists got their 15 seconds spouting what's "best for the kids"

• A film crew started assembling. Because obviously traumatized children need their nightmare on the big screen



Those aren't "facts." - That's grief p**n.



And society is addicted to it.



Here's what actually helps grieving families:

✓ Silence (unless you actually know them)

✓ Space (stop demanding details)

✓ Support (not speculation)



The truth? Your third hand "information" isn't helping anyone.

It's hurting real people in real pain.



Next time tragedy strikes, and you feel that itch to share what you "heard":



Don't.



Those kids don't need your theories.

The families involved don't need your hot take.

The police don’t need a lay person’s advice on how to best apprehend a fugitive.



They need us to shut up and let them 'ALL' grieve.



Harsh? Maybe.

True? Absolutely.



When did we become so entitled to other people's worst moments?

Today Stephen would have been 54.Instead, he's been gone nearly 13 years.The math haunts me.He's been gone longer than o...
20/09/2025

Today Stephen would have been 54.

Instead, he's been gone nearly 13 years.

The math haunts me.
He's been gone longer than our eldest knew him.

The reality of that sentence hurts my heart to think about

But today isn't about the math.
It’s about the husband, the father, the son, the brother, the friend, the teacher, the mentor, the leader, the singer, the songwriter….
It's about the man who filled my wardrobe to the brim with Italian shirts. The man who fought for justice like it was oxygen. The man who wrote songs that made strangers cry. The man who made Being BETTER matter before it was ever a business.
The man who made ME want to be better just by being himself.
‘Being BETTER’ wouldn't exist without him.
Literally.

54 today.
13 years gone.
Forever 41.
But the math doesn't matter.

He was the BEST (not perfect – but perfect for me!!!)
So, I choose to still acknowledge the date.
I choose to still celebrate him.
I choose to still remember
Happy birthday, my love.

Always and forever.
Anne

Last week, someone I'd never met died. And I cried. Not because I knew them personally. But because their story mirrore...
16/09/2025

Last week, someone I'd never met died.

And I cried.



Not because I knew them personally. But because their story mirrored mine in a way that made my chest tight.



Their back story was totally different to mine. How the person died was totally unlike the journey that led to Stephen dying.

Yet there was a similarity in their experience that kicked me square in the guts and left me feeling oddly connected to them.

Here's what 12 years of widowhood has taught me about grieving people we've never met:

Your grief is valid. Full stop.



When someone's story echoes your own loss, even in a small way, your nervous system doesn't distinguish between "knew them" and "didn't know them."

It just knows: danger, loss, pain, memories.



Research shows we grieve in circles - each new loss can reactivate our grief network, lighting up old wounds like a twisted Christmas tree.



The neuroscience is fascinating: mirror neurons fire whether we experience loss directly or witness it. Our brains literally can't tell the difference between our pain and theirs.



So, when that actor who played your comfort character dies? When that musician whose songs got you through the darkest nights is gone? When that advocate who fought for what you believe in leaves us?



You're not "overreacting."

You're human.



And sometimes, grieving strangers teaches us how to grieve better.

Public mourning gives us permission to be messy with our own losses.



To everyone feeling foolish for crying over someone you never met: Your tears are teaching you something about what matters to you.



That's not silly. That's sacred. That’s being human.

When grief dried me out from the inside, I discovered the strangest thing at my local café.They served water with straws...
12/09/2025

When grief dried me out from the inside, I discovered the strangest thing at my local café.

They served water with straws. Fat ones. And I drank the whole glass without thinking about it.

For months after Stephen died, plain water tasted like nothing. Getting through half a glass felt impossible. My body was shutting down non-essentials, and apparently staying hydrated didn't make the cut.

But that straw changed everything.

Turns out bars have been onto something all along. Those straws aren't just for cocktails - they're hydration psychology at work.

The science is simple: You drink 40% more through a straw. The thicker the straw, the faster you drink. No conscious effort required.

So I bought a pack of wide smoothie straws and started using them with everything I drank.

And something shifted. Water stopped being another grief task to fail at.

Now when grief makes everything taste like cardboard, I don't force it. I just put a straw in it.

Sometimes the smallest hacks make the biggest difference when you're treading water.



"TREADING WATER - NAVIGATING GRIEF INDUCED DEHYRATION!" is a series of posts designed to help support you and/or someone you love with the very real struggle of staying 'suitably hydrated' while living and dealing with grief.

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.)

"TREADING WATER - NAVIGATING GRIEF INDUCED DEHYRATION!" is a series of posts designed to help support you and/or someone...
12/09/2025

"TREADING WATER - NAVIGATING GRIEF INDUCED DEHYRATION!" is a series of posts designed to help support you and/or someone you love with the very real struggle of staying 'suitably hydrated' while living and dealing with grief.

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.)

Life after loss can get super messy.Being dehydrated at the best of times is a mistake we have likely all made: too busy...
09/09/2025

Life after loss can get super messy.

Being dehydrated at the best of times is a mistake we have likely all made: too busy, too distracted, to __________ (you fill in the gap).

When it is the 'worst of times', staying 'suitably hydrated' usually isn't even on our radar.

"TREADING WATER - NAVIGATING GRIEF INDUCED DEHYRATION!" is a series of posts designed to help support you and/or someone you love with the very real struggle of staying 'suitably hydrated' while living and dealing with grief.

Stay tuned by FOLLOWING this page (and please feel free to share far and wide).

Now, go grab a drink! (Like seriously - NOW!)

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.)

Are you ready to move from just surviving to Being BETTER?

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EARTH
Christchurch
8025

Website

https://stan.store/BeingBETTER-AnneMoir

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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.