Introduction
Alec Grant left investment banking with a plan, a savings target, and a resignation letter he printed and handed over less than an hour after deciding he was done. That same instinct for clarity and control carried him through something no plan could have prepared him for: becoming a solo father to young sons after the sudden death of his wife, Hazel. What followed was not a story of simply "staying strong." It was a deliberate, almost methodical rebuilding, therapy booked within weeks, grief support sought out, and a hard rule he set for himself early on: he would not hide his grief from his boys. Years later, that experience became the foundation of Resilience Cubed, his attempt to turn what he learned into something other people can use before their own crisis arrives.
A childhood spent knowing his own mind
Grant describes himself as a young person who moved easily between sport, books and different friendship groups without ever feeling he had to commit to one identity. He read voraciously, from Ian Fleming and Len Deighton through Sherlock Holmes to Tolkien, and later self-development titles, while also playing football, basketball, athletics and gymnastics. What stands out most in his own account is how little peer pressure affected him. He tried a cigarette a couple of times, decided it wasn't for him, and stopped. He tried alcohol on a school trip and reached the same conclusion. He still cannot fully explain where that self-possession came from, only that it showed up early and stayed consistent.
Leaving corporate life with a plan, not a leap
Grant traces a direct line between that same refusal to conform and his eventual exit from a long career in investment banking and the City. He never felt he belonged there, even early on, and by five to ten years in he was watching senior colleagues in their fifties still commuting hours each way, still chasing the next bonus cycle, with no visible exit in sight. Rather than drift the same way, he and his wife set a concrete deadline tied to their eldest son's third birthday: one of them would be out of corporate life by then. They deliberately limited spending, banked aggressively, and built enough of a buffer to survive roughly two years with no income from him. When the moment came, he asked to speak to his boss, handed over a resignation letter he had printed less than 45 minutes earlier, and refused to let it sit in a drawer. He wanted it processed immediately.
The moment everything changed
Grant describes the early, sudden loss of his wife, Hazel \[CHECK: exact circumstances of her death are unclear from the source audio and should be confirmed before publishing\], as the point where his life split into before and after. Within days, before he could fully process what had happened, one thought became overwhelmingly clear to him: he needed to get himself into the best possible state, not for his own sake alone, but because his young sons now depended entirely on him. He returned repeatedly to the same image throughout the conversation: the airline safety instruction to fit your own oxygen mask before helping anyone else. Within weeks he had arranged therapy, counselling and grief support through a charity, steps he still describes as pivotal to surviving that first year, even though he cannot fully explain how he knew, in the middle of that pain, exactly what to arrange and when.
Choosing honesty with his sons over a stiff upper lip
Grant made a deliberate decision not to hide his grief from his boys. He credits Winston's Wish, a charity supporting bereaved children, with shaping how he talked to them: use direct, unambiguous language like "died" rather than euphemisms like "passed away," and repeat it consistently so it eventually registers, however young the child. He let his sons see him cry. He talks openly with his youngest, who never met his mother, about her favourite colours and foods, so that she remains present in the family's daily life rather than becoming an unspoken absence. Some relatives pushed back, telling him to "put a brave face on it" for the children's sake. He held his ground, pointing to the professionals who work with grieving children every day rather than to well-meaning but inexperienced opinions. His reasoning was direct: as a solo father, he could not afford to model a version of masculinity that taught his sons boys and men don't cry, because that message, in his view, does active harm.
What actually helped, and what didn't
Grant is candid about the gap between well-intentioned support and useful support. Generic offers like "let me know if you need anything" added a mental burden at the worst possible time, because it left him responsible for identifying, articulating and requesting help he was too depleted to think through. What worked was specific and unprompted: a friend who simply came and did the laundry every day without asking, another who dropped off nappies and baby supplies on a schedule, another who handled the online food shop without being asked for a list. He also noticed, without resentment, that some people in his life quietly withdrew rather than sit with the discomfort of his grief, a pattern he links to a broader British reluctance to face death and loss directly.
Resilience as a choice you keep making
Grant repeatedly returns to a version of the Serenity Prayer as the core of how he processes hardship: accept what you cannot change, act on what you can, and know the difference. He is careful to separate this from toxic positivity. He is not claiming immunity to pain, only that he has learned to focus his energy on the part of any situation that remains within his control. Other bereaved people in his network faced different, sometimes harder circumstances with fewer resources, and he draws on those comparisons not to minimise his own loss but to stay grounded in what is actually within his power to change.
Redefining resilience as resilient living
Grant's current project, Resilience Cubed, grew out of an attempt to name something bigger than surviving a single crisis. He describes "resilient living" as the ongoing question of what armour you need to put on before stepping out into a world of constant comparison, from social media to school playgrounds, so that you can live intentionally rather than react to whatever is thrown at you. He connects this to ideas from stoicism and habit-formation writing, but roots it firmly in his own life: raised by his grandmother until her death when he was fourteen, later widowed with young sons to raise alone. His hope is that naming and normalising resilience this way, especially for those without inherited privilege or safety nets, can shift what the next generation inherits.
