The Moment After the Phone Rings

There is a moment, small, sharp, unforgettable, when the phone rings and life quietly divides itself into before and after.

Sometimes it’s the middle of the night. Sometimes it’s when you’re making dinner, or folding washing, or thinking about nothing in particular. Sometimes you already know, before you even answer, that the world is about to tilt.

The moment after the phone rings.

And then it happens. A sentence. A breath. A silence on the other end of the line. The kind of silence that tells you everything you didn’t want to know.

What people often remember most is not the crying, or the rushing, or the decisions that follow. It’s the moment right after, the strange, suspended stillness where the body hasn’t caught up yet, but some part of you already understands.

Your hands shake a little. Your heart thuds in a way it doesn’t normally do. The world around you continues, the fridge hums, a car drives past, someone laughs on TV and none of it matches what your mind is trying to hold.

It’s a moment that lives outside of time. And if you have felt it, you’re not alone. No one teaches us how to steady ourselves when news lands this way. No one prepares us for the strange mix of confusion, numbness, clarity, and disbelief. No one tells us it is okay to sit down. To breathe. To not move for a minute.

But it is okay. In fact, it is human. You don’t need to be composed. You don’t need to “know what to do next.” You don’t need to make phone calls or decisions or arrangements straight away. That moment after the phone rings is not a moment for action. It is a moment for being held, by your breath, your body, your memories, your love. Everything else can come after.

If you ever find yourself in that moment, or supporting someone who is, remember this:

You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to take a breath that feels too deep for your chest. You are allowed to feel whatever rises in you, shock, sadness, stillness, or nothing at all.

Loss does not arrive with instructions. But you don’t have to face it alone.

Warmly

Claire, Whakaaio