Earlier this year, I embraced my decent into middle-aged life by going on a glow worm walk. Guided by Essex Wildlife Trust volunteers, a group of about twenty of us set out looking for tiny little bugs (they’re actually beetles, not worms) in Iron Latch Woods, near Colchester. It was dusk when we set out, and it became dark quite quickly. I had never seen a glow worm before and was genuinely excited to spot some. I find it kind of mind-blowing that bioluminescence exists: the idea that plants and animals can create light without being plugged into anything. I’ve tried a few times to do it myself, but I can’t even figure out which muscles I’m supposed to tense.

About half an hour into our walk, there was an excited murmur. One of the volunteers leading our walk had spotted a glow worm. We took it in turns to stoop down to the ground and peer into the bushes where our guide was pointing. I couldn’t see anything at first and was beginning to think that maybe glow worms weren’t as exciting as I’d hoped they would be. But after a moment, I noticed a feint yellow-green glow. I adjusted my angle ever so slightly to see past some leaves, and there it was: unmistakeable. A tiny, but vividly bright, light. It looked like an LED bulb. It didn’t move, or make any sound, but it shone brightly. I should say, she shone brightly. It’s the female glow worms that light up, and they do it to attract a mate. The male glow worms can fly, and they use their big eyes to spot the lights from above. And they say romance is dead.

Having spotted one, it became easier to see more. We ended up finding about twenty of them. And, I’ll admit, I thought it was brilliant. I loved it. The irony of it is that if we’d been looking in daylight, we would have never found them. They were only visible because it was dark, and they were glowing.

This Christmas, I wonder if we could recognise how courageous it is to be a small light in a dark world. Could we, in a moment of stillness, pay tribute to the glow worms; to the fireflies; to the stars in the sky; to the fairy lights in our trees; to the love that persists in the hardest times?

I don’t want to trivialise how difficult Christmas can be. When you are grieving, and the world around you seems only to care about the latest John Lewis ad, or when to put up their tree, or trying to remember which Squishmallows their child already has, it can feel like the loneliest place in the world.

My faith, having met hundreds of grieving people through my work, is that broken hearts are often the ones that shine the brightest, even when they don’t realise it. Grief connects us to what is real. It is reminder that love really is the most important thing in life, and that the superficial things that felt so important before don’t really matter very much at all.

If you are struggling to spot the little lights this year, that’s ok. But be aware of the possibility that some bright light you may not know of is shining through the cracks of your broken heart, giving hope and meaning to the world around you. Be aware that your grief, far from being a problem to be a fixed, is a lighthouse, guiding lost souls back to the safe harbour of love. Each tear is a little light, a sign of life.

If you ever find yourself in Iron Latch Woods in June/July at around dusk, tread gently! There are bright little lights all around you, just trying to make new life. And in the meantime, tread gently in your grief. There are little lights hiding in it, just waiting for you to notice them.

Resources to help you this Christmas

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