The Jewish framework for grief lasts for a year, and I am more than halfway through it. And I have to admit that it has not been going too well.

My mother died in March. We knew, and she knew, that she was dying. We were able to spend time with her, share memories and laugh together. She said her prayers, we held her hand. It was a profound, deeply moving experience and I was very grateful to be able to share it. As I wrote at the time, I was all too aware of the families who had not been able to be with their loved ones as they were dying during the pandemic.

If you had asked me then how I would grieve, I would have told you that — after the shiva — I would make every attempt to say Kaddish for Mum, I would master those twisty Aramaic words and I would take myself to shul to say them. Perhaps not every day but certainly once a week. To honour her memory, but also to see what I made of the process.

There was an element of standing up for women’s rights as well. I have female friends who were cold-shouldered at minyans when they went to say Kaddish. I believe it’s important to normalise the idea of women as mourners as well as men, even in old-fashioned Orthodox spaces.

The shiva was uplifting and supportive. But it was also exhausting. And then came the challenge of working out how my father would cope alone at 94. Followed swiftly by my husband falling down the stairs and shattering his shoulder. Then Dad got Covid. And so did my brother. All of this happened during the first 30 days of mourning. Plus there was Pesach to prepare for. Somehow — understandably — I never got into the habit of saying Kaddish.

And after Pesach, after the shoulder healed and the Covid abated and we settled down a bit, did I start saying it then? Alas, I did not. The thought of going to shul — the hat, the skirt, talking to people — was too much. I craved nature and fresh air on a Saturday after a week at work. I felt vaguely resentful at the very idea of having to do something and strangely muffled in my response to my loss. It felt more as though Mum had popped out (to Waitrose, maybe?) than left us forever.

I knew from talking to friends that this was a normal reaction. They estimated that the storm of tears would break round about the five-month point. “Don’t beat yourself up,” they said, so I didn’t. In the meantime I made myself very busy with work. Come Shabbat, I was so tired I’d often sleep all morning. In the meantime, my sister in Israel said Kaddish every day and my brother went back to our childhood shul in Welwyn Garden City to say it every week.

This is not my first big bereavement. In 1998, my son Daniel was stillborn at nearly full term. There is no shiva, no Kaddish, no formal grieving process in Judaism for stillbirth and neo-natal death. Some people find this insulting; I have always viewed it as a kindness. The very last thing I would have wanted to do — or even be able to do — is sit shiva just after giving birth. The lack of formal structure left us free to create our own remembrance. But now, I wonder, did the feeling that Jewish rites were not available to mourn Daniel lead to my reluctance to even try saying Kaddish for Mum? As the weeks went on and my resistance to saying Kaddish grew, I thought perhaps this was an explanation.

The storm broke, of course, and the tears arrived. It was partly the Queen (the flowers on her coffin reminded me of the flowers that Mum grew in her garden, the corgis brought back memories of Mum and our old dog, and in so many pictures the royal smile was really quite like my mother’s) and partly the High Holy Days. I walked into Welwyn Garden City synagogue on Rosh Hashanah, the shul where I’d sat with her so many times and her absence hit me like a punch to the stomach. But she felt present as well; in the singing and in the quiet support of old friends, the sort of care she’d given so many in her time. My brother rattled through the Kaddish with speed and confidence. I struggled to keep up in a mumbled whisper.

My husband was 17 when his father died. His experience of saying Kaddish was awful. No one supported him or gave him any sympathy. It put him off shul for life. I’d hope things would be different now. Even a friendly call from a shul to ask how a mourner is getting on would be a nice idea.

I’ve learned a lot in the months of mourning, and I’ll probably learn more before the yahrtzeit in March. But one thing I’ve learned is not to judge people who find saying Kaddish a hard thing to do. I thought it would come naturally. It did not.