'My wife and I spent 18 years building a life together. Then my world collapsed one December day.'

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My world was turned upside down in early December 2014, when my 37-year-old wife Bec died suddenly from sepsis.

She was also the mother of our two young children, three-year-old Tom and Lottie, aged 23 months.

I've been navigating grief and loss for the last ten years and have learnt that I will carry it with me for the rest of my life.

While my story is sad, it is also a story of resilience and hope. The support of others has helped me find love again, experience the joy in our kids, strengthen connections with close friends and build a new future for us all.

Watch: R U OK? Post continues below.

Grieving for Bec and the life we imagined.

Grief isn't just about losing someone; it's about losing the future you thought was certain.

When Bec died, everything we'd imagined for our little family of four vanished overnight, as we became a team of three.

And it wasn't just my loss. It was the kid's loss as well. And Bec's loss too... missing out on seeing our kids grow up from toddlers to the funny, bright, amazing teenagers they are today.

At times, the layers of loss can make me incredibly sad.

Lach and Bec in 2003. Image: Supplied.

How grief touched every part of my life.

There wasn't a part of my life that wasn't touched by grief.

I cried a lot. I'd cry in the shower so the kids wouldn't get upset. I wasn't sleeping well and I couldn't focus at work. I was in shock, vulnerable and suddenly had to plan a funeral. Relatives were travelling to visit and there was the seemingly endless list of admin tasks that had to be done when someone dies.

I remember clearly in the weeks after Bec died, seeing people enjoying Christmas preparations. Everyone was on leave, it was summer, there was joy and celebration. But for me, it was the opposite. The contrast between the outside world and what I was going through only intensified my grief.

Despite having family and friends around, I felt incredibly lonely. Part of that was just being on my own, but the deeper loneliness came from not being able to share things with the one person who would've wanted to see them most.

Bec and I had been together for 18 years. We'd built a life together. And had our future planned out. It wasn't days, it was months, even years, of trying to come to terms with what had happened.

I didn't know what kind of support I needed. Looking back, what I needed most was for people to be OK with that, to just sit with me and listen, to not try to fix anything, and not to judge me.

When Lottie was born. Image: Supplied.

The power of showing up — again and again.

In the early days after Bec died, the support was incredible and at times overwhelming.

People showed up, dropped off meals, checked in, sent messages. That wave of empathy fills you with a strange sense of comfort and confidence that you're not alone.

But the waves get smaller and eventually stop. After weeks and months, the visitors arrive less frequently, the calls slow down, the messages stop, and you're still left with your grief and loss.

What really made a difference for me was the people who kept showing up and checked in consistently, even when I didn't answer the phone. I had mates that would just pop by, no big lead-up, no pressure. Just a knock on the door and a quick visit. That kind of support meant everything.

Brotherhood in grief.

One of those mates was Sam, someone I've known for 30 years. I don't have any brothers, but there's a couple of guys that I consider my brothers, and he's one of them.

Sam lives in New Zealand, and two days after Bec died, he arrived unannounced. He wasn't there to tell me what I should or shouldn't do, he just sat with me and listened. There were times we both cried, and times we laughed. He didn't just visit - he stayed present, even from afar. A decade on, we still message every few days and call weekly.

That kind of friendship, consistent, non-judgmental, showing up even when it's uncomfortable, was everything.

Lach and Sam. Image: Supplied.

My relationship with my close mates, like Sam, and others has changed for the better. It's stronger now, and it's a key reason as to why I found strength, and then happiness and love again through all of this.

I think for men in particular, that's super important. You need people in your world who you can be real with, and vulnerable around, and not worry about being judged. And if that's another bloke or two, that's a good thing. The chats don't have to be over a beer, and they can actually be more powerful and genuine when they're not.

For me, it's going for a coffee, or a fish, or a run and a chat afterwards.

The chats don't have to be about footy, they can be about family and fears. Because those good mates, the family you choose, will listen and help, especially when you talk about the real parts of life, the difficult parts.

Having those true mates is so important, especially if you're navigating something tough. Mates who would literally jump on a plane from another country to be with me and check in.

Image: Supplied.

Finding joy without letting go.

It was around a thousand days before I felt like I could start to look at a future of happiness, alongside the grief and loss, not by leaving the grief behind, but by learning to carry it differently.

I realised it couldn't define me, or the kids. We had to keep living and loving. To respect the grief, lean into it when it came, and park it when life needed us to show up.

Connection with friends, and really strong, caring relationships, have always been important to me, and that has only magnified through all of this. And, by far, the person who has helped me the most is my wife, Lauretta.

Someone who never knew Bec, but someone who now shares our grief and loss. She's been incredible for me, and for the kids, and I'm so grateful to have her in our lives.

Through grief, I found strength, not just in myself, but in the people around me. Mates like Sam and others. And a new partner, and love in Lauretta. A family of four, to three, and four once more.

Ten years on, grief is still present; it always will be, but so too is happiness. There's not a day where I don't think about Bec.

There's still a part of me that's missing and always will be. She is a constant presence in our lives. Sometimes that's hard, for all of us, but often it's really lovely to think about the fun, and happy times.

Because she's still with us, in some way. And she would be happy that I'm happy, truly happy, as are the kids. Because I've got a beautiful, loving family and a future I'm excited about.

Being there for someone doesn't mean fixing things, it means showing up, and listening, even when it's hard, and especially without judgment. That's what helped for me. And that's what I try to do now for others.

Lach shared his story for the 'When life happens, ask R U OK?' series, which is proudly supported by our Conversation Partner, ING Australia, and has been republished here with full permission.

Feature Image: Supplied.