Remembering Penny: Early Grief and Learning to Be “Good”

I have always been a twin. But for most of my life, I haven’t said those words out loud. My twin sister, Penny, passed away when we were both three years old. Her absence has always been part of me, but for a long time I wasn’t fully aware of how deeply it had shaped me. She became a quiet part of my story that I didn’t openly share – not because I wanted to keep her a secret, but because it isn’t the kind of thing that comes up easily in conversation. And the longer I stayed silent, the harder it became to introduce.

For many years, I thought losing her had had no effect because ‘I was just a child when she had died’. Her passing felt distant in time. I was doing ok. I was living my life. I wasn’t impacted – or so I thought. Over time, I began to realise that by not speaking about Penny, I was also keeping a part of myself hidden. Her loss and the impact of her loss on my family shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand for a long time – how I see the world, how I navigate relationships, and how I show up today, both personally and professionally.

A turning point

In recent years, through my own counselling, I reached a point where I knew it was time to talk about Penny more openly. I’m not sure whether it was becoming a parent myself, deepening my understanding of bereavement through my counselling training, or simply realising how much time had passed. What I did know was that I wanted to honour Penny’s memory, recognise my identity as a twin, and share my experience in the hope that it might help others who carry their own untold stories.

One of the most poignant moments in this process was realising that my children had never heard of their “Aunty Penny.” It wasn’t a deliberate omission – it was simply something I had never found the right moment to say. Talking to them about her, and sharing her story, felt like an important step in keeping her memory alive, both for me and for our family.

To mark this decision, I chose to get a tattoo – a double connected heart – a permanent, visible reminder that I am one of two. It symbolises love, remembrance, and connection, and serves as a daily reminder that Penny is, and always will be, part of me.

How early loss shapes patterns

Through reflecting on my own loss, I’ve come to understand how early experiences shape the ways we learn to cope. As a parent now myself, I can only begin to imagine the pain my parents experienced. As a child, though, that pain was something I couldn’t comprehend or process. One of the ways I adapted was by learning to stay quiet, to be “good,” and to hide my own feelings. If I could keep the world around me calm, then nothing more unexpected would happen. If everything stayed steady, I would be safe.

This wasn’t something I did consciously. It was an instinctive coping strategy that, as a young child, felt like the only option available. I couldn’t run from the grief or fight what had happened to my family. Freezing and doing nothing didn’t make the difficult feelings go away either. What I learned as a child was that I had some power to make things feel more manageable. If I could keep the world around me calm and pleased with me, then my own world felt safer.

This is a pattern I still notice today – people often describe me as a calming presence.

In my therapy work, this quality continues, but with awareness and intention. Creating a natural, grounded space where clients can feel safe enough to slow down, explore long-held patterns, and reconnect with themselves matters deeply to me.

What we often recognise in adults as people-pleasing, or what psychology understands as a nervous system adaptation known as the ‘fawn response’, was an early, intelligent coping strategy. It helped me navigate a world that suddenly felt unpredictable – and it now informs the gentle, compassionate way I work with others.

Unspoken grief and hidden emotions

Not all grief looks like a funeral or memorial. Sometimes we grieve what we didn’t have, how we were treated, or the versions of ourselves that quietly adapted without realising. Some losses happen quietly, before we have the words to describe them. Some are minimised, rushed, or never fully acknowledged. When grief isn’t held at the time, it doesn’t disappear – it adapts.

For me, the loss of Penny taught lessons my mind couldn’t yet process: to stay vigilant, to be attuned to others’ emotional states, and to keep my own emotions contained. These lessons live in the nervous system rather than the conscious mind, and they can shape adult relationships and behaviours in profound ways.

Emotions that once felt unsafe because they didn’t ‘please or calm’ others  – such as anger or frustration – are often swallowed or redirected. Many of my clients - and I have too - have carried these hidden emotions for years. Therapy isn’t about releasing feelings recklessly or losing control. It’s about creating enough safety to notice, understand, and gently integrate emotions at a manageable pace, while recognising that we are safe in the here and now and no longer need to protect ourselves as if we are still there.

How lived experience informs my work

Sharing Penny’s story is deeply personal, but it also helps explain why I recognise these patterns so readily in others. Living with the fawn response, and gradually understanding it over time, allows me to empathise with people who feel exhausted from being “good.”

Alongside my lived experience, my professional training provides a framework to gently explore these patterns. Together, we can begin to understand why the nervous system adapted in the ways it did, how grief and early experiences shaped coping strategies, and what it might feel like to soften long-standing behaviours without judgement or pressure to change.

A gentle invitation

Writing about Penny keeps her memory alive and reminds me why this work matters.

If you recognise yourself in these patterns – if you learned to be “good” to keep others safe or happy, or if you carry unspoken stories of your own – counselling can offer a calm space to explore these experiences, reconnect with your needs, and begin finding more ease in your nervous system.

I offer counselling in Wickham, Hampshire, as well as online and walk-and-talk sessions in a natural outdoor setting. There’s no pressure – just an open invitation to begin where you are.

www.lynseyberwickcounselling.com

Penny – you will always be with me. I am a twin, and I always will be.