A complicated grief played out in public
Kerry Katona has revisited the most painful chapter of her life, describing how relief and guilt collided after the death of her ex-husband George Kay. Speaking candidly in recent interviews and posts, the former Atomic Kitten singer said her feelings weren’t neat or simple—and certainly not what headlines made them out to be.
Kay, the father of Katona’s youngest child, Dylan-Jorge, died in 2019 following a suspected drug overdose. He was 39. At the time, reports said he had been seen ingesting cocaine in a hotel shortly before he became unwell. Katona has since clarified that his death was an accidental overdose, not suicide, and that he had struggled with addiction for years.
What has sparked fresh debate is how Katona spoke about feeling a sense of safety once the chaos stopped. In an interview with The Sunday People, she said she believed he “couldn’t be saved” and that if he hadn’t died, “it would’ve been me.” She described living with constant fear, the kind that keeps you alert at all hours, and admitted she only ever felt she could breathe when he was in jail or out of her life.
Those lines were quickly turned into blunt headlines that suggested she was “glad” he died. Katona pushed back, hard. On social media, she said her words had been twisted and she worried how her daughter might one day read them. She stressed that grief after a toxic and volatile relationship doesn’t fit into straightforward boxes. Relief, fear, love, and guilt can sit together—especially when a child is involved.
Katona has spoken before about the turbulence of their relationship, alleging abuse and coercive control. She says she tried to get him help more than once but could not “save someone who didn’t want it.” That line resonates with families who’ve lived with addiction up close. There’s the grind of trying everything—rehab suggestions, boundaries, moving house, police calls—and still feeling powerless as the spiral continues.
On ITV’s Loose Women, she admitted the guilt hits hardest when she thinks about their daughter. Dylan-Jorge hadn’t seen her father for a year before he died, she said, and that still stings. She wiped away tears as she talked about that choice, one she framed as a safety decision rather than a punishment. That tension—protecting a child while maintaining a connection to a troubled parent—is one many families know well, and it often leaves scars no matter what you choose.
Katona also wanted to be clear about language. She says Kay’s death was not some deliberate final act but a tragic accident after a long battle with drugs. That distinction matters to her, both for the truth of his story and for the way their daughter will understand her father when she’s older. Katona has said she leans on her faith and close family to steady herself through these conversations.
It’s worth remembering the setting. This wasn’t a private loss. Katona has lived much of her adult life in the tabloids, with cameras waiting outside car doors and commentary following every post. Grief is hard enough. Grief with a microphone in your face is something else.
In that environment, the public often gets the headline version of complicated realities. So when Katona used the word “relief,” what she seemed to be describing was the end of imminent danger—the dread of that late-night call, the anxious scanning of every text, the imagining of worst-case scenarios. Her mother, she said, even feared a call from police telling her that Kay had killed her. It’s dark and blunt, but it makes sense of why she caught her breath when the chaos stopped. Relief doesn’t mean celebration; it means the threat finally ended.
For Katona, the task now is simpler, if not easier: keep life steady for her children, answer questions honestly, and correct the record when it drifts. She’s said more than once that no set of words can capture the pain this period brought her family. That’s another quiet truth of grief: what you feel often doesn’t match what others expect you to say.
Headlines, help, and a mother’s worry
Katona’s social media response was as much about future damage as present outrage. She doesn’t want her daughter growing up to find a trail of stories saying her mum cheered her dad’s death. She knows how a single word can define a person in the public eye. For her, the fight is about nuance—especially for a child who will one day google her parents.
She also wanted people to hear that she did try to help Kay. In her telling, it wasn’t one dramatic intervention but a long, uneven effort: tough conversations, steps toward treatment, then setbacks. Anyone who’s loved someone with addiction knows the script. It rarely moves in a straight line. Families get worn down. Trust shrinks. Hope resurges, then collapses. And somewhere in that rhythm, the rest of life—work, money, school runs—keeps demanding attention.
Katona’s supporters say she’s doing the right thing: speaking plainly, owning the parts that haunt her, and pushing back when the story gets flattened. Critics argue that even with caveats, saying you felt relief after someone’s death sounds harsh. Both reactions tell you how charged this topic is. People bring their own experiences to it, especially if they’ve lived with addiction, domestic violence, or both.
What sits at the center of all this is a child. Katona has said her daughter’s well-being shapes every word she shares. Explaining a parent’s death is delicate; explaining it alongside a history of addiction and a volatile relationship is even harder. She’s talked about giving age-appropriate answers, about picking honesty over euphemism, and about respecting that grief looks different for a child than for a parent.
The wider story is familiar across the country. Addiction crosses class and postcode. Partners live with a mix of fear, love, and fatigue that most people never see. Some find safety. Some don’t. When tragedy happens, the survivors often carry confusing emotions that clash with tidy public narratives. Katona just happens to be famous enough that her version lands on front pages.
She says faith helps. So does routine. So does drawing a line when the noise gets too loud. After years of upheaval, she’s trying to guard the quiet parts of her life. When she chooses to talk, it’s to correct, to contextualize, and to make sure one word—relief—doesn’t get mistaken for joy. It was about fear stopping, not love disappearing.
It’s a raw story, and it’s still unfolding in small, private ways. For now, Katona is asking for a little space for complexity—room for a mother to admit she was scared, to say she’s sad, and to keep raising her daughter with the full, complicated truth of who her father was.
