When my father passed away suddenly in April, I committed to wearing only black until after the funeral. I’m still struggling to properly articulate my feelings, but wearing black seems like a mark – albeit a feeble one – of respect to the memory of the best man I will ever know, and a small hold-out against fully returning to real life.
I’m obviously not the first to wear black in mourning; the colour has held a near-mystical appeal for millennia. The Romans used to don a toga pulla when grieving. In the early medieval period, black symbolised malevolence, but by the 12th century the colour was associated with dignity, austerity and moral authority. It was adopted by many religious orders, including the Benedictines and the Dominicans.
Black as mourning-wear was popularised in the 19th century under Queen Victoria. Women and children were expected to forego all colourful clothes for a year following the death of the family’s patriarch. The rise in elaborate and ostentatious mourning outfits turned grieving into a business: the jet trade in England, particularly in Whitby, flourished because of the demand for mourning jewellery. After her husband Prince Albert died, Queen Victoria famously wore black for the final four decades of her life, including at her daughters’ weddings.
The Victorians had other, more eccentric grieving habits. Covering mirrors was one practice, as was ‘telling the bees’. Beekeepers would whisper the news of a death in the family to their insects and would cover the hives in black fabric. A Victorian rector wrote in 1886 that the news should be delivered to the bees at midnight; others said it must be sung to in rhyme.
I understand why such mourning rituals have gone out of fashion, and I can see that wearing black feels anachronistic in 2025, if not a bit pretentious. Most people probably haven’t even noticed my new obsession, and my family and friends have been a little baffled as to why I have felt so compelled to do it. My father would probably think it all quite ridiculous. Wearing black to every occasion has been impractical and often quite silly. Rather than being dignified, my attempt at this high-minded solemnity has meant sweltering in the same black suit through successive heatwaves, interviews and parties.
Wearing black seems like a mark – albeit a feeble one – of respect to the memory of the best man I will ever know
Still, I can’t help but think that it’s a shame – for both the living and the dead – that we’ve lost some of these traditions. They offer comfort and a degree of protection when even small things can feel daunting. I’ve certainly struggled to do anything without thinking of my dad. A couple of days before he died, he asked to see a priest and receive the Last Rites. I was suddenly reminded of his Catholic upbringing, and that he had lived decades of his life before I came along. I have realised I never really knew much about him beyond the fact that he was my dad. Contemplating the decades of life ahead now he’s gone seems just as hard to get my head around.
Weeks pass in a rush of hen dos, friends’ newborn babies and work deadlines, and April has somehow turned into July. I am grateful for the distractions of day-to-day life. At the same time, I sometimes find myself in panicked disbelief that a full calendar month could pass without him. The funeral has come and gone and I’m still wearing black. While I doubt I will stick to this forever like Queen Victoria, I’m not sure when I’ll return to my normal wardrobe. I miss him terribly. Wearing black has turned into a welcome constant – a line of defence.
I’ve realised that a speedy return to ‘normal’ life has come with some other strange concessions. There are lots of things besides wearing other colours that I’m not sure when I’ll start doing: listening to music again, checking the weather forecast, reading whole books, talking about him in the past tense. But for the time being I will stay in this slightly muted, quietly beautiful world of mourning. I want to keep remembering him.
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