I have been fatherless for five years now. 2019 was the year he exhaled his final breath into the hot summer air, and my life has never been the same. I had never experienced death up close, nor grief of such magnitude. I clearly remember the feeling of hovering above reality: life goes on—birds continue to sing, cars zoom past, trees sway—but I am no longer part of it.

This detachment, the unknown of what this feeling was, scared me. I didn’t know what grief was or how I was supposed to grieve, so for an entire year, I did nothing about it. I numbed it, kept myself busy, pushed it to the back of my mind, pretended.

But looking back, that nothing was actually something. I became drawn to brokenness—abandoned objects, things that were repaired, fragments of something, cracked bricks, rusty wires, worn fabric. My creative mind, the artist in me, was working silently in the background, long before I realised that this was the start of my healing process.

The broken pieces soon began to form new shapes—imperfect, raw, fragile. I wanted to feel them in my hands.

My dad had dementia. I didn’t know much about it then. I wanted to understand how he must have felt, why his personality changed, why he was no longer him. I had so many questions about dementia, death, and grief. So, I started educating myself. And everything I learned; I poured into my artwork. For example, my work “Tau Tangles” explores the protein clumps in the brain that damage nerve cells and cause dementia
symptoms.

My creative process became a repair tool in my personal grief journey. It became my language, a way to externalise my inner darkness, my fear of death—until, eventually, its grip on me loosened. Art gave form to my thoughts when words failed. My introverted nature, combined with the loneliness of grief, found release in creation.

Along the way, I learned how to make new meaning and build a connection with my dad—to bring him into the present. I use his clothes, old sketches and letters, layering them into new artwork. It’s a co-creative process. People we lose don’t have to be forgotten; they can live alongside us. The creative process allows me to reflect on my experience rather than simply be consumed by it.

I believe everyone can do this. It’s not about technical skill, formal education, or making something perfect—it’s about listening to your heart. It’s about finding what matters to you and what mattered to the person you lost, what speaks to your soul and turning it into something tangible—whether that’s poetry, writing, painting, collage, performance, food, dance, film, or photography. The possibilities are endless. And through them, we conserve the bonds that death cannot erase.

Throughout these blurred five years that moved both too fast and too slow, I have come to realise that loss can be a catalyst for growth. It pushes us toward action, forces us to re-evaluate, fuels creativity. The brain changes in response to loss (as Mary-Frances O’Connor describes), motivating us to search for the person we lost. When we finally understand that we cannot find them, we shift—not to let go, but to find a new way to connect.

My father’s death moulded me into who I am today. Every project I undertake now is, in some way, because of this loss.

I am now an ambassador for Arts for Dementia. I run creative workshops for people with dementia in Hertfordshire, and through this, I feel closer to my dad. Though I can’t see him smile as he engages in his art, seeing others experience that same joy is special—it is healing.

I was awarded an Arts Council England Grant to develop my project, “Letters to Forever”, which explores grief, loss, and art. I have collected over 200 grief letters from people around the world. I read them, sit with them, and respond through intuitive drawing—channelling others’ grief through my own hands. I let the marks emerge patiently.

This work will be exhibited in August 2025 in St Albans, alongside performances, sculpture, video, sound pieces, free holistic workshops, and a book featuring all the letters and my selected artworks. Everyone is welcome—to see how grief can be translated into art, into something tangible, enduring, alive. This project amplifies the power of community honouring the multitude of grief stories shared with me. It de- stigmatises how society undervalues grief. Bringing all these stories together I aim to create a space for pause, reflection and connection.

All of this could not have happened if I had not lost my dad. Grief has taught me that it is here to stay. It is not a wound to be healed but a force to be understood, a teacher in its own right.

Grief is different for everyone. But for me, it has been a path inward—deepening my introspection, expanding my empathy, reshaping my life’s priorities. I believe we all have a purpose, a reason this life was gifted to us. And though loss can feel unbearable, perhaps our purpose is to create new meaning from it—to carry it forward, to transform it into something real.

Natalia Millman

Save the Date: “Letters to Forever” – A Visual Art Installation Turning Stories of Grief into Community Healing
6th – 28th August 2025
St Peter’s Church, St Albans, Hertfordshire
Proudly supported using public funding by Arts Council England in partnership with Cruse and Memory Support Hertfordshire.

For more information contact:
info@nataliamillmanart.com
@nataliamillmanart
www.nataliamillmanart.com