Tag: grief
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Grief Has No Rules: Love, Loss, and Letting Go
“Grief never ends … But it changes. It’s a passage, not a place to stay. Grief is not a sign of weakness, nor a lack of faith. It is the price of love.” ~Unknown
“Thank you for letting me know.” The moment I hung up the phone, the tears came. I was confused and caught off guard. Why was I crying over the death of my ex-husband?
We’d separated six years ago. I had a new partner and hadn’t thought much about him in over three years. So why did his death hit me so hard?
Big Girls Don’t Cry
Growing up in Ireland, emotions weren’t something we talked about. Tears were for small children, not grown women. When I was upset, I’d hear the same phrase, “Big girls don’t cry.” It wasn’t meant to hurt me, but it stayed with me.
I learned to swallow my feelings. Anger, sadness, fear—those were things you kept private. I thought strength meant holding it all in. But as I grew older, that kind of strength felt heavy.
When my ex-husband died, all of it came rushing back. The sadness, the confusion, the guilt. And then the shame. Why couldn’t I just be stronger? Why couldn’t I pull myself together like I was supposed to?
Grief and Guilt Collide
I felt like I was failing. Crying didn’t just feel wrong—it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of my upbringing, of the image I had of myself, and even of my current relationship. I couldn’t stop thinking: What if my partner saw me like this? Would he understand? Would he think I still loved my ex?
The guilt weighed on me. But so did the fear. I wanted to go to the funeral, but I was terrified. What would his family think if I showed up? Would they see my tears and think I didn’t deserve to grieve? Would they think I was pretending?
I wanted to hide. I wanted to run away from the emotions I wasn’t supposed to have. But this time, something inside me told me to stay.
Reaching Out for Support
I couldn’t carry it alone anymore. The grief, the guilt, the fear—it was all too much. For the first time in my life, I did something I’d always avoided. I reached out.
I called my mum.
At first, I hesitated. My instinct was to keep it together, to pretend I was fine. But the moment she picked up, the words spilled out. I told her everything. How lost I felt. How ashamed I was for crying. How afraid I was of what people would think if they saw me like this.
She didn’t say much at first. She just listened.
The Power of One Simple Truth
Then, when I finally stopped talking, she said something simple. “It’s okay to feel this, you know. You loved him once. That doesn’t just go away.”
Her words broke something open in me. I cried harder than I had in years, but for the first time, I didn’t feel alone in it. She stayed on the phone while I let it all out. She didn’t try to fix it or tell me to stop. She just stayed.
That moment was a turning point. I started to see that grief wasn’t something to fight against or hide from. It was something I had to let myself feel. And asking for support didn’t make me weak. If anything, it gave me strength.
Leaning on my mum helped me find my footing. I wasn’t over the loss—not even close—but I felt less trapped by it. For the first time, I could breathe again.
Facing My Fears at The Funeral
I arrived early at the church with my friend, my stomach in knots. The air felt heavy, like it knew I didn’t belong here—or at least, that’s what my mind kept telling me.
A car pulled in beside us, and my heart sank. It was his sister. Without thinking, I slumped down in the seat, silently pleading for the ground to swallow me whole. What am I doing here? I wasn’t sure I could face their grief. I wasn’t sure I could face my own.
But I’d come this far, and I couldn’t back out now.
Finding Unexpected Comfort
Dragging my feet, I walked toward the church door. Each step felt heavier than the last. I caught a glimpse of his brother standing near the entrance, and panic bubbled up in my chest. I almost turned and ran.
My friend, sensing my hesitation, gently squeezed my elbow. It was a small gesture, but it steadied me. I kept walking.
Then I saw her—his sister—standing at the church door. Her eyes locked with mine. There was no way out now. I braced myself, expecting a cold stare, a sharp word, maybe even outright anger.
Instead, she stepped forward. And then, before I could react, she wrapped her arms around me. The hug was warm and full of love. It broke down every wall I’d built up in my mind.
Finding Solace in Shared Memories
Inside, the service was simple and poignant. The priest spoke softly, and memories of our life together floated through my mind—some good, some hard, all real. As the coffin was carried out of the church, I felt the tears welling up again.
My friend placed an arm around my waist and gave me a little squeeze. For a moment, I considered pulling away, trying to summon that old stiff upper lip. Pretending I was fine. But I didn’t. I let the tears fall.
After the service, the family invited me for a drink. It was an Irish funeral, after all. I hesitated, unsure if I belonged in their circle of mourning, but their warmth melted my fear. As we shared stories about him—some that made us laugh, others that brought tears to our eyes—I realized something profound. We had all loved this man in our own ways, and in that moment, our shared grief united us.
Carrying the Sadness, Embracing the Joy
Leaving the funeral, I felt a strange mix of emotions. The heaviness of loss was still there, but so was something else—a sense of lightness, even relief.
The family’s kindness had reminded me of something I’d forgotten in my guilt and fear. I wasn’t just grieving a person; I was grieving a chapter of my life. My ex and I had shared 18 years together. Those years mattered. They shaped me into who I am today.
A Beautiful Realization About Love
At first, I struggled to reconcile those feelings with the love I have for my current partner. I worried that my grief might hurt him or make him feel less important. But over time, I realized something beautiful: love isn’t a competition. There’s space for both past and present love in my heart.
I still feel sad when I think about my ex. Some days, it sneaks up on me—a song he used to love, a random memory, or even a quiet moment when the world feels still. But I’ve learned that sadness doesn’t mean I’m stuck or broken. It’s just a part of healing, a reminder of the love we shared and the lessons we learned together.
Lessons Learned Through Grief
- Grief Has No Rules: It’s okay to mourn someone even if your relationship wasn’t perfect or ended long ago. Grief is deeply personal and unpredictable.
- Emotions Are Strength, Not Weakness: Feeling your emotions doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. Suppressing them only makes the weight heavier.
- Ask for Support: You don’t have to carry grief alone. Lean on those who care for you and let them help lighten your burden.
- Grief and Growth Can Coexist: Mourning someone is also an opportunity to reflect on what that relationship taught you and how it shaped you.
- Healing Takes Time: There’s no timeline for healing. Be patient and gentle with yourself as you navigate the journey.
Grief isn’t something we “get over.” It’s something we carry with us, but over time, it becomes lighter. We make space for it, and in doing so, we make space for love, connection, and joy again.
If you’ve experienced grief, know that you’re not alone. Share your story in the comments below or reach out to someone who can support you. Sometimes, simply being heard can be the first step toward healing.
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Because I Lost My Mom: 6 Gifts I Now Appreciate
“The only thing you sometimes have control over is perspective. You don’t have control over your situation. But you have a choice about how you view it.” ~Chris Pine
I had a happy, carefree childhood up until a point. I remember lots of giggles, hugs, and playfulness. One summer, as we were sitting in my grandmother’s yard enjoying her homemade cake, my mum’s right hand started trembling.
My worried grandmother encouraged her to eat, but her hand continued to tremble. I remember her troubled look. She must have sensed something was wrong.
Just three months later, she was gone. Acute leukemia meant that on Monday she received the results of a worrying blood test, on Wednesday she was admitted to the hospital, and by Friday she had died. I was only ten years old.
My aunt broke the news to us that Friday afternoon by saying, “Your mum has gone to the sky.”
If I were to explain what the news of her passing felt like, I would say it was like being hit by lightning. I’ve read that in cases of sudden death, children can stay stuck in some sort of confusing reality: They hear what happened and react to the news, but they don’t quite comprehend it. Somehow, deep inside, they don’t really believe it.
In my case, and for years following my mum’s death, I thought that she had gone to the sky, but that she would come back. It was just a trip, or a bad joke.
She would most definitely come back.
As you might be guessing, I did not get much support in dealing with my grief. On the contrary, the message I got was that life should go on. That a page had turned, but the preceding pages weren’t worth reading.
This is also how all the adults around me acted. So, even though lightning had struck me, I simply stood up and continued to walk, despite all the invisible damage it had done.
The wake-up call to locate that damage and try to repair it came years later when I started experiencing health issues that my doctors said were linked to chronic stress. That’s when I finally decided to face my grief. My young adult body was giving me a clear sign: There were too many unprocessed emotions, desperately needing to find a way out.
Once I allowed myself to finally feel that my heart had been shattered in a million pieces, I started putting those pieces together and redefining who I was.
If my life were a book, grief would be the longest chapter. When I meet someone for the first time, I almost feel like saying, “Hi, I’m Annie, and my mum suddenly died when I was ten.” That’s how much it defines who I am.
Negatively, you might think.
Indeed, her absence still causes tremendous pain. I never felt this more than when I had my own children a few years ago. Becoming a mother does not mean that you stop being a daughter who needs her mother. You also become a mother who would like her children to have a grandmother.
My mother is not there to spoil my daughters, and they will never get to know her. There is no one I can ask to find out how I was as a baby. She isn’t there to listen to my worries or fears while I navigate parenthood.
I still get a ping in my heart when I see ten-year-old girls with their mums, seeing myself in them and re-living the immensity of such a loss. And as I am approaching the age she was when she died, I’m terrified that I will share the same fate and that my girls will grow up without me.
Nevertheless—and I know this might sound contradictory, but aren’t grief and life full of contradictions?—in many ways, her absence has also been a gift.
Thanks to her:
–I fully embrace the idea “live every day as if it is your last” because I know that there is a very real possibility that this day might indeed be my very last. While you might think this means living life with fear, quite the opposite is true. It means living life full of appreciation, gratitude, and love for this body that is still functioning, for the people around me, and for life itself.
–I choose to be truly present with my children and close ones and cherish deep relationships because I want to make the time we spend together count. If the memories we are creating are shorter for whatever reason, let them be powerful.
–I have a job that gives me a deep sense of purpose and meaning because anything else would make me feel like I am wasting precious time that I don’t necessarily have. I’m honored to be making a difference in other people’s lives by helping them think differently about their lives and helping them through their own grief. I make it my goal to share my gifts with the world while I live on this planet.
–I am (relatively) comfortable with the challenges that life throws at me. When you survive after the tragedy of losing a parent, you don’t sweat the small stuff as much. I still find myself getting upset by little things like anyone else, but I’m able to quickly change my perspective and realize that many of the things that upset us are not as important as we first think.
–I know that I cannot control life because life is utterly uncontrollable. In fact, I was a control freak for years, trying to make sure nothing tragic would ever happen to me or my loved ones again, until I realized that this was a reaction to my mum’s passing. I now know this isn’t a way to live life, and that is liberating.
–I take care of my health to feel good in my body, not because I want to live until I’m 100, but because I want to live well. I don’t want my days to be filled with the common ailments that people usually accept, such as headaches, brain fog, or digestive issues. I can only enjoy life fully if my body is allowing me to do so.
If you have experienced early loss but cannot possibly imagine feeling anything positive about it, there is nothing wrong with you. I am sharing my story to perhaps inspire you or even give you comfort.
Perhaps all you can do right now is stay open to the possibility that at some point in your life, you might be able to see things in a similar way. Ultimately, the path of grief is entirely unique.
Would I wish early loss on anyone? Never.
Has grief made me happier? Perhaps.
Has it made me wiser? Definitely.
Just as a friend once told me, “You can’t appreciate light without the shadows.”
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How to Honor Our Grief While Rebuilding Our Lives
“Grief is not something that ever goes away. You just learn to accommodate it so you can move forward in your life and over time it gets less intense, at least most of the time.” ~David Baxter
Grief is a natural response to loss. Loss can mean the death of a loved one, the end of a relationship, the loss of a job or home, or a response to trauma, abuse, or betrayal. Grief shows itself differently in different people. But the common denominator is that grief goes deep, and grieving is painful.
Around six years ago, my life was turned upside down and would never be the same again.
I was raised in a cult from the age of nine. I was a child of domestic violence and divorce. My father abandoned the family, and we subsequently suffered abuse from my mother’s partners.
By age seventeen, I met a young man, and we began dating. In line with the strict moral code I was raised with, we were married by the time I was nineteen.
We had two children, and I struggled to be the perfect wife, mother, and cult member, as I suffered from severe anxiety, coupled with feelings of self-loathing and mistrust of others.
My husband was selfish and narcissistic, which led to me carrying the weight of the family almost alone. Yet, I battled on, wanting my children to grow up with both parents, feeling safe and in a strong, supportive community.
Eventually, things came to a head, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. After twenty years of marriage, I separated from my husband and was subsequently excommunicated by the cult. This meant that I was completely cut off from my mother, my community, and childhood friends—basically everything and everyone I knew and loved.
Outside of the cult, I had no one and nothing.
Almost overnight, I had lost my whole identity and support network along with beliefs that I had held on to for the whole of my life.
A few months after the excommunication, a close family member who was only twenty-seven took his own life. I was devastated and still reeling from the other losses that were still so raw.
Despite all of this, I was determined to rebuild a life for myself and my children. I educated myself, got a better job, made new friends, had relationships, and eventually met a good man who would go on to support and love me with all my struggles.
I was all about ‘moving on’ and building the life I wanted! But every now and then, I would get so very sad.
I was receiving counseling specific to my situation, which was helping, I had a good life, and those things that hurt me were in the past. I was doing all the ‘right’ things, so why was I getting so sad to the point that I wanted to push everything and everyone away and be alone?
I would feel like I had accomplished nothing and would be plagued with guilt and shame and regret. It would make me feel vulnerable and unsafe, and I couldn’t understand why.
Then, after another tearful and anxious weekend, I decided to try to focus on myself, meditate, journal, and do some yoga—all the things that usually helped at least ease the symptoms.
It was during my meditation session that it occurred to me: I am still grieving. I am grieving the loss of a childhood, the loss of my community, of my beliefs, of my family and friends. I am grieving the loss of my parents and of my beautiful nephew. I am grieving what I imagined my life would be and what I imagined my children’s lives would be.
I realized that grief doesn’t have a time limit; it doesn’t get ‘done.’ It’s not something we get through and tick off at the end.
My grief wasn’t just going to go away over time or with lots of positive thinking.
When we suffer loss, it hits us throughout our lives. And that’s okay. It’s uncomfortable and it’s sad, but it’s okay. It’s sometimes so painful that it is overwhelming or debilitating. We can allow ourselves to feel that sadness. We can grieve. We can allow ourselves a little space to honor that loss.
I write this because so many of us have suffered loss in our lives, and we so want to move on, do better, be better, and heal, and we can. But we also have to remember that the loss we felt was real, that grief is not a linear process, and that it’s okay if years later, we are still sad and grieving the loss. We have not gone back to the beginning. We’re not starting again or getting nowhere.
We cannot force ourselves to ‘get over it.’ We can, however, make room for that grief and still live a rewarding life. By honoring our grief, we can allow place for the loss but see that we can have a future and continue to work toward that.
I know I will never ‘get over’ the effects that abuse, abandonment, betrayal, and loss have had on me. I know I will always miss and feel sad about the loss of my nephew. I know I will always return to the grief because those things cannot be erased from my memory and because those things were my life and mattered to me.
But I can allow myself to grieve those losses without guilt or shame. I can soothe myself and take care of myself during those times when I am feeling fragile instead of beating myself up and berating myself for feeling that way and for not ‘being strong.’
When I do this, I come back feeling comforted and validated, and I can move on for a while to crafting the life I want to live. I can appreciate the friendships and relationships I have formed. I can explore new beliefs. I can entertain hope.
When I honor my grief, I honor the people I have loved and lost; I honor the beliefs I held and the hopes I had; I honor my hurt; and I honor that they were part of me and my journey and, in some ways, always will be. But I also allow myself to accept that I can honor my grief and still have a good life. I can rebuild. I can be happy.
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How to Move Forward After Loss: The 3 Phases of Healing
“Whatever you’re feeling, it will eventually pass. You won’t feel sad forever. At some point, you will feel happy again. You won’t feel anxious forever. In time, you will feel calm again. You don’t have to fight your feelings or feel guilty for having them. You just have to accept them and be good to yourself while you ride this out. Resisting your emotions and shaming yourself will only cause you more pain, and you don’t deserve that. You deserve your own love, acceptance, and compassion.” ~Lori Deschene
To this day, I still remember that call. I had just come home after an exhausting day at work, put on my sneakers, and went jogging. I left my phone on the table because I just couldn’t handle any more calls from my clients that day.
As I was jogging, I was hit with a feeling that something was wrong. I tried to shake it, but I couldn’t. It was very pervasive, like an instinctive ‘knowing’ that something terrible had happened.
I turned around and rushed home. As I got there, I picked up my phone and saw twenty missed calls from my mother and father. I didn’t even have to call back. I knew what it was.
I grabbed my car keys and started driving to my mother. As I was driving, I called her, but she was so emotional and upset that she could barely talk. My dad picked up the phone and told me to come quickly. “Your brother…” he said. “Your brother is no longer with us.”
At only twenty-eight years of age, two years younger than me, my brother had decided that enough was enough. He’d lived a life filled with severe anxiety and depression, which he tried to mitigate with alcohol and, I suspect, stronger substances.
It wasn’t always that way, of course. He wanted nothing more than to fit in—to find his place in society and live his purpose. Nothing was more important to him than friends and family.
But time after time, society failed him. First, by trying to push him through a “one-size-fits-all” education system that just wasn’t for him. Then, after he was diagnosed with depression, he wanted to get help and heal himself, but the doctors deemed him too happy and healthy to receive psychological care. He was dumped full of medication, which did nothing but worsen his physical and psychological condition.
After years of trying to cope with depression and fighting a healthcare system that’s supposed to be among the best in the world here in Finland, he could no longer take it. He saw no other way out of the constant pain and suffering other than to end it all.
My brother, as I like to remember him, was always outgoing and social. Nothing was more important to him than his friends and family. He was very open about this, and the last thing he would have wanted was to cause any pain or suffering for those closest to him. Or anyone else, for that matter.
But there we were, our parents and me, trying to get a grasp of what had happened and how to deal with it.
How Not to Deal with a Loss
The first couple of days, I was devastated. I couldn’t eat or sleep or do anything other than just lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. I had daily calls with my parents to make sure they were okay, but they did not know how to deal with it either. They could offer no solace to me, and I couldn’t offer anything to them. I had no idea what to do or how to handle my emotions.
As days went by, I got back to my routines. My boss was very supportive and told me to take as much time off work as I needed. But I told him I was fine and said I had no intentions of taking any sick leave.
That was the only way I could handle it: by working and taking my mind off what had happened. My method of dealing with my emotions was not to deal with them at all. I did everything I could so that I wouldn’t have to think about it: I worked, I partied with my friends, and I distracted myself by doing literally anything other than giving some time and thought to what had happened.
Needless to say, that was not a healthy way to deal with the situation.
Soon enough, I started to notice a total lack of energy. There were days when I couldn’t even get out of bed. I turned off my phone because I was so anxious that I just couldn’t deal with anything and just stayed in bed all day.
If I wasn’t happy at my job before, now things seemed even more depressing. I could not find joy in anything and avoided social contact. I was irritable and had no motivation, even toward things that I previously enjoyed
I thought things would improve with time. Time, they say, is a healer. Not in my case. It felt like things were getting worse by the day. I was checking all the marks of severe depression, and I seriously started to contemplate what would become of my life.
Then one night, when going to bed, I was feeling so sick of it all. I was depressed and anxious, an empty shell of the joyful extrovert that I had previously been. I sighed, closed my eyes, and quietly asked myself, “What’s the meaning of it all? What am I supposed to do? How am I going to get over this?”
To my surprise, I received an answer.
“Help.”
I don’t want to say that it was a divine intervention or anything like that. It was more like suddenly getting in touch with long-forgotten deep wisdom within myself. My purpose. The driving force behind my every action.
Whatever it was, I understood at that moment that it would be my way out. The reason I’m not healing with time is that I’m supposed to help myself by learning how to overcome depression and anxiety and then help others do the same. It became very clear to me.
I also understood the source of my problems. The depression, the anxiety—it was all because of my inability to deal with the emotions related to my brother’s demise. Heavy thoughts and emotions were piling up, thus making my mind and body react negatively.
I vowed that I would find a way to release the thoughts and emotions related to what had happened to my brother. I decided to be happy again. Happiness and good mental health—those would become my guiding principles in life.
The process of finding answers was an arduous but rewarding journey. I contemplated and studied, meditated, and sought advice for months, but eventually I found the emotional blockages that were holding me back and methods to release them in a healthy way.
Now I want to share what helped me with you.
The intention behind sharing my personal experiences is not to diminish or downplay the unique pain that you may be enduring. Loss affects each of us differently, and there is no one-size-fits-all approach. My aim when sharing this story and the following three phases of letting go is to offer solace or insights to each of you navigating your own paths of healing.
1. Allow yourself to grieve.
The first phase, and our first natural reaction to a loss, is grief, and the first mistake I made was not allowing myself to grieve.
Grief, when allowed to be expressed naturally, is a powerful tool for dealing with loss. It is there to help you let go when you can’t otherwise. It allows you to express and process your emotions, including sadness, anger, and confusion, which are common reactions to bereavement.
Elisabeth Kübler-Ross identified five distinct stages of the grieving process:
- Denial
- Anger
- Bargaining
- Depression
- Acceptance
But, as you probably know, the process is highly individual. I never felt the need to deny what had happened. I wasn’t angry about it and wasn’t trying to bargain my way out of it.
Instead, I repressed my grief. I used all the non-beneficial coping methods, such as overeating, drinking, working around the clock, and so on, and that led me to the fourth stage, depression, and got me stuck there for a long time.
Fortunately, grieving is very simple. Just allow it to happen naturally, the way it wants to be expressed.
If you allow yourself to express your grief, it will go away or at least decrease in intensity. My mother was, unknowingly, an expert at this. She said, “I have cried so much that now there are no more tears to be shed.” She had processed the grief and was done with it much quicker than I was.
When you express your grief naturally, without trying to repress it or ignore it, you can eventually move through sadness. But if you have learned to repress your grief and not cry, your grief can grow into depression, as it did in my case.
It can take time to heal and recover from the emotional pain and sadness associated with grief. And even though the situation can seem dark, recovering from loss, depression, and psychosomatic health problems is possible, as my story shows. When I finally allowed myself to grieve, I noticed a significant improvement in my mood. I felt lighter and gained more energy, and suddenly life didn’t seem all that dark anymore.
2. Accept and forgive.
The second phase is accepting what has happened and forgiving those involved, including yourself, to reduce anger and resentment and, ultimately, create a sense of peace.
In essence, forgiveness is a two-fold process:
First, forgive yourself. We tend to blame ourselves, even when there’s nothing we could have done. Odds are, you did everything you could. But especially if you feel like you made mistakes, forgiveness will be crucial for healing. Step in front of a mirror and look yourself in the eyes. Say, “I forgive you.” It will be uncomfortable and hard at first, but it will get easier and easier if you keep working at it.
Second, forgive others. I firmly believe that, deep down inside, the people we have lost never wanted us to suffer. Forgive them, and forgive anyone you might be tempted to blame for their pain. You can do this by telling them in person or by closing your eyes, imagining them in front of you, and saying to them, “I forgive you.”
In the case of my brother, it was easy to see that his actions were not intended to cause distress or grief to others. He acted the way he did because it was the only way he knew how to deal with his pain and depression.
I could have blamed his actions for my depression, but I understood that he was in constant pain and agony and why he saw no other option.
It would have also been easy to blame my parents for what had happened. They had their problems— including divorce and depression—which heavily affected my brother and me. But the thought never crossed my mind. I love my parents, and I’m sure they did everything in their power to raise healthy and happy children.
Forgiving myself was the hardest part. I believed that if only I had visited my brother more, given him more of my time, and just listened to his worries, I could have somehow helped him heal. It took time and deep self-reflection to understand that we cannot change other people’s minds. At best, we can help them change their minds, but we cannot make decisions for them. Each of us walks our own path through life, and our choices are ultimately our own to make.
There’s nothing I could have done that would have made a difference. I’ve accepted that now and forgiven myself and everyone else.
3. Move forward with purpose.
For me, the most crucial part of moving on is finding meaning and purpose in the loss. It can be as simple as reflecting on the positive aspects of the relationship, the lessons learned, or the impact your loved one had on your life.
In my case, I decided to dedicate my life to teaching what I had learned so that no one would have to suffer the same fate as my brother. It was a deep calling that gave meaning to my brother’s life and a purpose to what I had to go through.
It is my way of honoring his memory, and it feels like it finally gave the meaning to my brother’s life that he was always seeking. He never found his place in this world, but now he would help others live a happy life filled with purpose through my telling of his story.
The Beauty of Life Lies in its Ephemeral Nature
One truth about life is that it will eventually end. Consequently, throughout our lives, we are bound to encounter loss.
Even though letting go and moving on after a loss is undoubtedly one of the hardest things to do, it’s what we should do. There’s no point in giving up on life just because we lost someone dear to us. We can grieve for as long as we need to, but eventually, acceptance and forgiveness pave the way for moving forward, reclaiming joy, and honoring the memory of those we have lost.
And please remember: There is always hope, and there are those who wish to help. So dare to ask for support whenever you feel like things are too much for you to handle. You don’t have to go through it alone.
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The Truth About Grieving: There Are No Rules for Healing
Here’s what I know about grief: There is no measuring stick.
The loss of a mother, father, sister, brother (or all of the above), the loss of a husband, wife, lover, boyfriend, girlfriend, or life partner, the loss of a best friend, dear friend, or close friend, the loss of a mentor, teacher, guider, inspirer… Who’s to measure? Who’s to say how profoundly those losses may or may not break our hearts?
There are no rules.
The loss of a happy, loving relationship may be far easier to survive than the loss of a troubled one.
A lover may feel overwhelmed by sadness years after a husband remarries and starts a family.
A close friend may feel as much loss and sorrow as a best friend.
When a person dies, they may have 10, 100, 1,000 friends, or even more grieving them. When Judy Garland died, so many people in the gay community grieved her loss that it was a contributor to the Stonewall riots and the beginning of the gay rights movement.
At first, when you lose someone, friends, distant and otherwise, shower you with messages and cards saying things like “This, too, shall pass” and “You are strong; you will get through this.” The Jewish religion gives you a week to “sit shiva.” You cover the mirrors. (Who wants to look at such a sad face anyway?!) You wear slippers. People bring you casseroles. You are expected to spend an entire week crying.
Two, maybe three weeks later, no one asks, “How are you feeling?” No more cards come in the mail. No more “May her memory be a blessing” messages on Facebook. Some friends avoid you for months, saying they “want to give you time to mourn.”
The overwhelming message feels like, “Times up! Move on! Cheer up!”
No one seems comfortable around grief.
Two weeks after I lost my mother, my girlfriend at the time decided to break up with me. She said she loved me (is that love?), but she loved the happy, fun, cheerful Rossi she met, not this sad, brooding, blonde mess.
I love NOT being with her anymore.
As much as people like to set limits, there is no time limit on grief.
I lost my mother, Harriet, thirty-three years ago. A Jewish mother’s love can be suffocating, yes, but also like a vast ocean of endless warmth. I wish I could swim in that ocean one more time.
“Get over it; she was just a friend.”Just?
I still mourn the loss of my mentor and friend Catherine Hopper, who passed away five decades ago. I was only eight years old when Catherine died. I can still smell the powder foundation she slapped on her face with abandon.
Some people feel they are in a grief competition. They downplay your grief by talking up their own (far superior) grief. What is this, the Grief Olympics? What is the medal, a lifetime supply of tissues?
2022 was my death year. I may always think of it that way. I lost my dear friend Kathryn, my best friend since childhood, Suzy, my friend and co-worker BB, and my sister, Yaya. I thought I was done with death after 2022, but I lost my brother, Mendel, on Halloween the following year.
I’d like to say that I took the time to mourn each loss and move on before the next came, but it felt more like standing in the ocean getting toppled by a wave. Each time I came up for air, I was toppled by another.
Most people assumed I would have the hardest time losing my sister and brother. I had more trouble losing Suzy. She was the person I most likely would have been talking to about losing my sister and my brother. She’d known them both since we were children.
At fifty-nine years old, I found myself to be the last surviving member of my family. My mother used to call herself “The Last of the Mohicans.” At the age of forty-six, she was the last surviving member of her family. Yet another thing my mother and I have in common. This is not a baton I want to carry.
For eighteen years, BB was the person I could lean on professionally. If I were inclined to call in sick (something I rarely do), it would be okay because BB would be there. I think of our van rides to events together like the rings in a tree. I can trace where I was in my life and in our friendship by the depth of our van chats. Our first rides together, we talked about lemons, limes, and rosemary focaccia. Our last rides together, we talked about heartbreak and love.
My relationship with my brother, Mendel, was problematic and troubled, riddled with the hypocrisy that often accompanies extreme religion. In some ways, his loss has been the hardest. I mourn the brother I never had as much as the brother I did have.
I watched a movie on a JetBlue flight in which the main character was crying. His son asked him why he was crying, and he said, “Because I used to be a brother.” He had lost not only his siblings but also his identity as a brother.
I started crying too, much to the discomfort of the frazzled woman sitting next to me. I used to be a sister. I used to be a daughter.
In all the many words meant to support and comfort me these last few years, the ones that made me feel the most loved were when my partner, Lyla, decided weeks and months later to start each morning by saying, “Good morning, Honey. I love you. How is your heart?”
All had gone quiet, but not my morning messages: How is your heart?
These days, when friends have traumatic losses, I offer love, but more importantly, I check in with them a month or months later when society has revoked their permission to keep feeling sad and ask, “How is your heart?”
Life is hard. We like to say otherwise, because only Debbie Downers walk around saying things like “Life is hard.” But let’s face it: LIFE IS HARD.
We hope to have a life filled with love. Aren’t the best things in life about love? But the price of love is loss.
I like inside pockets, always have. Secret little places to tuck a pair of keys, a tissue, a lipstick, and a $20 bill.
My heart has inside pockets. I carry my mother there. She wanted to take my whole heart over, but I asked her to make room for Yaya, Mendel, Suzy, Kathryn, BB, and Catherine Hopper and her powdery foundation, too.
Folks talk a lot about the five stages of grief. I tell those five stages to screw off! No two people are alike. No two losses are alike. My grief is like no other grief.
My sister, Yaya, maintained a childlike abandon all of her life. She loved to put an “S” in front of words that started with “N.” It was one of the adorable Yayaisms I miss the most.
In the face of profound loss, I hear her voice. “S’NOT SNICE.”
In some ways, Yaya was the smartest person I knew.
That’s right, Yaya. S’not S’nice.
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How I’m Navigating My Grief Since Losing My Father
“Grief is the price we pay for love.” ~Queen Elizabeth II
Losing a loved one is never easy, and when that loved one is a parent, the pain can feel insurmountable.
Last August, I faced one of the most challenging moments of my life: My father, my rock and my confidant, passed away after a brave battle with cancer.
As immigrants, my father and I shared a bond that was uniquely deep; we relied on each other for support, trust, and guidance in a new world. His wisdom shaped my life, and his strength inspired me daily. This is my story of grief, healing, and the steps I’ve taken to navigate this profound loss.
Allow Natural Time to Grieve
Grief is not a linear process; it ebbs and flows, demanding to be felt in its own time.
My father spent his final days in palliative care, with my mother and me by his side. Watching him in pain, seeing the strongest person I knew slipping away, was heartbreaking. In that final week, I cried more than I had in my entire adulthood.
His passing brought a mixture of relief—knowing he was no longer suffering—and numbness. In the weeks and months that followed, I allowed myself to feel everything: the disbelief, the anger, the guilt, and the remorse. Each emotion came naturally, and I let them flow. It’s essential to embrace these feelings rather than suppress them, as they are a crucial part of the healing process.
Prioritizing Self-Care
Throughout my life, I’ve been the caretaker, always ensuring everyone else was okay. This journey made me realize that I couldn’t continue to pour from an empty cup.
I slowed down, took time off, and focused on self-care. I rediscovered activities that nourished my body, mind, and soul. Journaling became a therapeutic outlet, and practicing gratitude shifted my perspective. I indulged in spa days, kickboxing, and dancing, drank plenty of water, and tried meditation.
Staying connected with nature, reading for pleasure, exploring Greek and Roman mythology, and making new friends brought joy and a sense of renewal. Learning a new language also became a way to stimulate my mind and create new memories.
Seeking Help
Reaching out for help can be daunting, but it’s an essential part of healing.
I signed up for a digital health program that offered coaching and connected with friends who had experienced similar losses. While I haven’t yet felt ready to talk to a therapist, it’s something I plan to pursue in the near future. Supporting my mother, who is also navigating her grief, has taught me the power of vulnerability and the importance of accepting help from others.
Keeping Busy
Staying busy became a way to channel my energy and emotions positively. I engaged new clients, took new courses, moved to a new city, formed new professional and personal relationships, and even started a new business.
Challenging myself professionally and personally helped me step out of my comfort zone while being gentle with myself. Understanding the finite nature of life has made me let go of societal expectations and focus on creating meaningful relationships and pursuing goals that truly resonate with me.
Grateful for the Journey Together
Above all, I am profoundly grateful for the journey I shared with my father. Not all families are as close as ours, and the bond we had was a true gift.
My father’s resilience, strength, and street smarts have left an indelible mark on my life. He taught me to be cautious yet strong, resilient yet empathetic. His legacy lives on in the lessons he imparted and the love he gave.
Grief is a complex, multifaceted experience, but it is also a testament to the depth of our love and humanity. As I continue on my healing journey, I carry my father’s wisdom and strength with me, knowing that he is always a part of me.
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Healing Your Broken Heart After Miscarriage
“You never arrived in my arms, but you will never leave my heart.” ~Zoe Clark-Coates
If you have experienced a miscarriage, I am so sorry for your loss. I know the pain of pregnancy loss all too well, as I recently experienced a miscarriage at ten weeks pregnant.
It was a complete shock.
I had two healthy previous pregnancies, and everything felt fine—until it wasn’t.
As a mental health professional, I have worked with many women who have experienced miscarriage, and I know the statistics show that one in four will experience pregnancy loss.
With everything I knew and all the stories I had heard, I still hadn’t considered how likely it was to happen to me. During and after the loss, I found myself in a tunnel of darkness, sorrow, anger, shame, and unrelenting guilt.
Before I go further, I want to affirm that miscarriage is a significant loss, and it is natural to hurt deeply. Your grief is real, and it deserves to be honored.
“Grief only exists where love lived first.” ~Franchesca Cox
This quote is an important reminder that the attachment, love, and hopes you had for a future with your baby were real, and it does not matter how many weeks along you were.
In the aftermath of my miscarriage, I truly expected to move on quickly and didn’t imagine it would take such a toll on my well-being and mental health.
For months, I was triggered by everything and would break down into tears daily. I felt tremendous guilt for miscarrying.
The word “miscarriage” itself made me feel like I must have missed something, like I had failed my baby, my husband, and myself.
At no point had I received a follow-up call or been offered emotional support from doctors, and I truly didn’t realize how traumatic the physical aspect would be.
I knew I couldn’t change the pain of this experience and that I could not continue to bury it and isolate myself, hoping that the grief would just disappear. From the moment I found out I was pregnant with my third baby, my life changed, and it changed again when I lost the baby.
Here are some tips as a pregnancy loss survivor and mental health professional that helped me heal and find my sense of self again.
Grieve and Mourn Your Baby
Grief is your feelings and thoughts associated with the death, whereas mourning is when you take that pain outside of yourself by showing or doing something. Please give yourself permission to feel your feelings, and if you have any mementos, consider placing them in a special memory box.
I have a box with my pregnancy test, ultrasound picture, and a picture my four-year-old daughter drew for her angel baby brother or sister.
Take Time to Heal
Take some time to heal, and do not rush to get back into your normal routine. Something traumatic has happened to your body and soul, and you need time to recover.
Take some time off work, cancel commitments, and let household chores slide for as long as necessary.
Remember: There is no timeline for grieving. It hurts for as long as it hurts, and you need your own patience and compassion every step of the way.
Set Aside Time to Grieve
Purposefully invite your pain in and set time aside to mourn your baby. I know this may sound strange, but grief and mourning are hard work, and as human beings, we can easily push away the pain that comes with grief.
I encourage you to give yourself five or ten minutes of uninterrupted time where you dedicate yourself to your pain and truly allow yourself to feel it.
In the early days after my miscarriage, I would listen to Taylor Swift’s “Bigger Than the Whole Sky” and allow myself to cry while writing. That song spoke to me after my miscarriage and can still make me feel close to my baby when I listen to it today.
Find Your Tribe
I know initiating discussions around miscarriage is difficult, but remember that you are not alone, and that every time you share your story, you are breaking down the stigma and shame associated with talking about miscarriage.
Whether you join an in-person support group or just post in a community forum online, sharing your feelings can help you process them, and it could also help someone else heal from their loss.
If you are supporting a loved one through a miscarriage, please do not put pressure on yourself to “fix” their pain.
Your presence, empathy, and ongoing emotional support will help them in their healing more than you know.
Some Parting Thoughts
Be gentle and patient with yourself during this time, and remember that everyone experiences pregnancy loss grief in their own unique way.
An affirmation that I tell myself on those hard days is: My baby lives in my heart and will be safe there forever.
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5 Things to Know When an Abusive Parent Dies
“Family is supposed to be our safe haven. Very often, it’s the place where we find the deepest heartache.” ~Iyanla Vanzant
My brother called me at work on a random Tuesday to say that my mother had suddenly died. Powerful emotions of shock and relief ran through my body, like someone rang a gong right next to me. The war was over.
Like most people with an abusive parent, I had previously wondered how I would feel when my mother died. I was not surprised at the relief, nor that I wasn’t sad.
I did not think about what would happen next.
The Funeral
One brother and I flew to Houston to meet my second brother. As happens with death in the South, the neighbors loaded us up with food—bless them. While we were tasked with making plans for the funeral, my mother’s extended family converged upon us.
I should have won an Academy Award for keeping my cool and not exploding on them. I learned to act from the best: My mother was one person in public, another person at home. My mother’s extended family thought she was amazing. I stared stony-faced at the relatives telling hilarious stories and talking about her excellent character.
The hardest part was when the extended family compared me to my mother. Given what I know about her meanness, tantrums, and childishness, it felt like being compared to the schoolyard bully. I just tried to not roll my eyes out loud.
After all the hoopla of the memorial service, everyone went home, and my brothers and I had our own memorial in the living room. We laughed at some of her greatest hits. “Remember when she screamed at the cashier who wouldn’t take her coupon?” “Remember when she said my house was too small and she hadn’t even seen it?”
The Aftermath
When I got back home, people who cared about me kept saying, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I just looked at the ground and mumbled, “Um, thanks.” Now, when I hear about a death, I say, “Oh, wow” and give that person space for their truth.
My father died six years earlier. I knew from personal and professional experience that after a death, reality hits at about the two-month mark, when the numbness wears off. I braced myself to dig into the hard emotions.
The anger and sadness about my mother were like a bomb—everyone in the area felt it. I previously worked through the feelings of unworthiness, knowing the abuse was not my fault (thanks, therapy!). I gained thirty pounds of grief weight. Now I was also furious that grief issues were invading my body.
Family Stuff Goes On (Of Course)
I was still in touch with my extended family, of course. When they wanted to regale me with stories of my mother’s fabulousness, I tried to set the story straight. We would just gridlock.
On my mother’s birthday, the family posted memories about her on Facebook. I then posted a photo of the two of us when I was about seven years old. We were at my dance recital, and my mother had her arms open wide, smiling for the camera, while I clung to her. A friend privately messaged me, “She’s not even touching you.” I messaged back, “Exactly.”
One aunt finally admitted, “Yes, your mother was hard on you.” I was shocked that people knew about the abuse but did nothing about it. The fact that my family left me to rescue myself as a child caused an emotional setback for several months.
To this day, I avoid the topic of my mother with these people.
And Then, Healing
I purged the grief in my journal, with my therapist, through art and sports. As I sifted through the rubble of my emotions, I became grateful for the many women who were mothers to me over the course of my life.
I changed my nutrition. I learned to nurture myself in ways I never got as a child. I became my own mother.
As the smoke cleared from grieving, I unpacked my automatic behaviors from childhood. I started hearing my true Self and made better choices. For example, I found that I have a gentle nature at my core. I couldn’t hear my Self because I was locked in battle with my mother.
Through even more journaling, more therapy, and more time (seven years at this point), I was finally able to release the situation. People use the word “forgiveness.” More accurately, I can see the wholeness of the debacle of my childhood. I found real peace.
Tools To Use
I have seen other people in my practice who’ve feel relief when an abusive parent dies. Like me, they often don’t think about emotions or situations past that point.
Some things to think about:
1. You might get compared, favorably or not, to your abusive parent. People outside of the immediate family rarely say bad things about the deceased.
2. Even though you feel relief, there is still grief, even if it’s “What I should have had…” Boxing up your feelings will make them come out sideways. Grieving is a hard and time-consuming process, but worth it for your healing.
3. Even though your abusive parent has died, they are alive in your head. Every mean thing they said, crazy thing they did—it’s all still there. Do trauma work to reclaim your life.
4. You are more than what you’ve survived. Listen for your true Self. Who are you underneath the abuse from your abusive parent?
5. Family members often push the abused person to forgive WAY too early. This is like sticking a band-aid on a wound. Forgiveness sets you free, but only when you are ready.
From a Distance
I am not sad that my mother has died, and I don’t miss her. She was mentally ill, and I am glad that she is not suffering any longer. I’m also glad that she is not hurting me or my siblings any longer.
Seeing the situation from a distance, I can see my mother for her incredible flaws (I haven’t forgotten), but her strengths as well. She was artistic. She loved animals and senior citizens and tried to help them. She was a feminist before it was cool.
As expected, her death brought a ceasefire, but it also brought much more. It gave me the chance to unshackle myself from this long-running war so that I could walk away, towards my true Self.
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How to Comfort the Grieving Without Saying “Sorry for Your Loss”
“Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world.” ~Buddha
“I’m sorry for your loss” is a perfectly acceptable response…if I’ve told you I’ve lost my phone. In that instance, I can appreciate the sentiment, empathy, and authenticity of the phrase. It’s my loss and my loss alone. I know you can put yourself in my shoes and internalize what it would feel like to be without this critical device and, as such, the words carry weight.
When I tell you my parents are dead, though? Maybe not so much. That’s because they’re monumental deaths that are not easily relatable for most. See, my dad passed away from ALS when I was fourteen. My mom then accelerated her unhealthy relationship with food and passed away due to complications from morbid obesity when I was twenty-seven. I’m an only child.
Approach me with this filler phrase when this has been revealed, and my knee-jerk reaction will be a rushed “uh huh, thanks. Anyway…” I don’t mean to be brusque (well, I guess I do). I know you’re doing your best. You know you have to say something in response to this info. and, chances are, everything you think of in those few milliseconds after this revelation seems to fall short.
So the autopilot, reflexive, out-of-office reply surfaces to the top.
Here’s why it’s problematic.
Only ‘My Loss,’ Really?
Not to play a game of semantics, but the first issue I take with this filler phrase is that it conveys these deaths are only my loss. Yes, I know you’re speaking directly to me and not my parents’ siblings, friends, co-workers, or grandchildren. But these—either individually or collectively—are not singular losses.
My grandmother lost the ability to outlive her children.
My dad’s friends lost their weekly poker buddy.
My mom’s co-workers lost the office’s “voice of reason.”
My daughter lost the privilege to ever know her grandparents.
The world lost whatever future contributions these two would have made to it.
My point is, there are many people who lost something on those two separate days—and those losses have continued along with their absence.
Alienation, Party of One
Placing this loss directly on me—or on anyone, for that matter—also creates a separation between us. Yes, it might have been a loss in my life, not in yours, but you’ve now squarely bifurcated us.
I am the bereaved; you are the condoler.
The last thing someone mentioning a death needs (IMO) is to be constantly reminded that we’re different from the rest of you. That the black cloud is over our heads, not yours.
Grief and loss and death, not to mention the sadness and depression that can go along with them, is isolating enough. Please don’t magnify that even more by placing us on opposite sides of the fence.
Comfort, Camaraderie
The biggest problem I have with the loss apology is that it really doesn’t offer anything. No source of comfort. No relatability. No words of advice that you can turn to when you’re struggling.
It’s a “break glass in case of emergency” phrase for those who don’t know what to say. For me, it’s words I bob and weave to get away from like a dodgeball torpedoed at my head.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I really don’t. I know you’re doing the best you can. I simply hope to provide a little cause for pause if this is your go-to condolence.
Plus, consider yourself lucky. If hearing about these sorts of losses and deaths makes you uncomfortable to the point that your brain turns to mush, it might be because you haven’t experienced this kind of grief yourself. That’s something to be happy about. And trust me when I say, I’m happy for you. I really am!
Okay, now that we know why this phrase can rub the aggrieved the wrong way, what can we say instead?
Rephrase the Loss Apology
Tweak your sentiments slightly, and suddenly you’ve got a phrase that feels authentic and relatable, at least to me.
I’m perfectly happy with:
“I’m sorry you had to…
- go through that.
- experience that.
- deal with such early losses.
- encounter these tragedies so early on.
- figure out how to navigate life on your own without your parents.
You get the point. Any iteration of this phrase works for me for two reasons. First, because it acknowledges my personal experience, versus framing the deaths as my loss and my loss alone. Second, because, although you may not be able to relate, a sense of empathy and authenticity comes through by recognizing that these palpable losses had palpable effects.
Share a Memory
The absolute best condolence I ever received came from a young man I had never met. We were at my mom’s funeral when he came up to introduce himself. He was the son of one of her co-workers, though her name wasn’t familiar. His presence was a little quizzical to me, as his eyes were red, his nose was runny, yet I had no idea who he was.
He told me he’d gotten to talking to her when he’d visit his mom in the office. Apparently, they developed a rapport over time. So much so that she was the first person he decided to come out to. He told me how she received this news with love, support, and a welcomed ambivalence that let him know it was okay to be himself. That nothing was different with this added piece of information.
I have tears in my eyes as I write this. To this day, that short encounter has been the best gift any single human has ever given me regarding my mom. It brought comfort. It let me know she touched others (and kept treasured things to herself). It showed the magnitude of her loss outside of myself.
When you lose a parent to (food) addiction the way I did, it’s very easy to vilify them. They should’ve known better. Done better. Been better.
Then I think of that story and, at least in that instance, she’s a goddamn hero in my eyes. And not for how she received the news—though she seemed to handle that well—but for being such a source of support and comfort to this young man that he chose her, of all people, to come out to.
Wow. I can’t say I’ve ever left an impact like that on someone. That is admirable, and the encounter is something I’ll treasure always.
I do want to add a slight caveat to sharing stories about the deceased, though. It’s all about right place, right time. Had I been going into a meeting, about to speak to a crowd, or been ready to engage in anything that involved my full attention and right mind, this would not have been the time to share something that might have made me crumble.
This strategy requires you to read the room a little, but it can be the best condolence you can bestow if the timing is right.
The Leading Statement
As the above example shows, your statement doesn’t even need to involve an apology. After all, you didn’t kill them, right? If you did, totally apologize. Hopefully from behind bars.
Anyway, I love the leading statement strategy because it gives the aggrieved options.
“That must have been so hard for you.”
“I’m sure that was a difficult thing to experience so young.”
These open-ended statements give us choices. We can simply acknowledge them, usher an appreciative thank you, and steer the conversation in another direction if we don’t feel like deep diving into grief.
Or we can use them as a jumping off point and say, “It was really hard, I think the most difficult thing was…” Now we’re in a conversation. An exchange. Two people on the same side discussing an experience. It’s not me on one side receiving an apology about a “singular” loss and you on the other, nervously scratching at your neck and wincing, wondering what happens next.
And, in case you’re wondering, yes, I am absolutely guilty of wielding this phrase myself. I’ve never appreciated hearing it or saying it, but I’ve really started to internalize how hollow these words are recently, since discussing my parents’ deaths more publicly.
So let’s all strive to do better. I know we can. If we shift our thinking more toward what may benefit the aggrieved—versus allowing the first obligatory phrase we can think of to pop out of our mouths—these encounters will be a lot less uncomfortable.
And, if all else fails, show us a picture of your dog. They always bring comfort, relatability, and connection. Hey, they don’t call them emotional support animals for nothing…
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The Surprising Way a Breakup Can Help Heal Your Heart
“Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart … Who looks outside dreams; who looks inside awakens.” ~Carl Jung
There is nothing quite like an unwanted breakup to rip your heart open and bring you face to face with your deepest shadows.
At least, that’s how it was for me.
Nearly six years ago, on a typically warm and sunny Saturday October afternoon in Los Angeles, I was lying on the floor of my apartment, wallowing to my then-boyfriend on the phone about how everything in my life seemed to just be hitting walls: My career was hitting a ceiling, our relationship felt stagnant, the direction of my life itself was hazy and vague.
It wasn’t the first time we’d had a conversation like this, but this time was different. On this day, for reasons I can only ascribe to the greatest mysteries of life, the center bearing the weight of it all began to unravel at the seams—with a long, deep sigh after at least an hour of getting nowhere, he spoke, “I think we should break up.”
My mind couldn’t have fathomed hearing these words. Our relationship, no matter how bad it was, did not have an end in my mind. We were connected, we had found something within one another—something special and unique—and he had rekindled a feeling of aliveness in me that I did not want to let go of. It was simply unthinkable to me that what I had found with him would ever come to an end.
But—as will eventually happen to us all at one point in life or another, whether it be a breakup, loss of a loved one, or something else—the unthinkable happened.
I wish I could say that part of me found relief in the moment; that the part of me that knew things weren’t totally right came to surface to tell me, yes, this is a good thing.
Instead, I entered complete denial.
I listened to his words, and after grappling my way through the remainder of that conversation, I hung up, went to bed, and cried myself to sleep.
In my head, because I was still so enraptured by a fantasy of “this can’t possibly ever end,” this was just a hurdle. It was a part of our path that would see us separating for a moment, but ultimately coming back together again.
My mind simply didn’t want to let go.
In fact, it couldn’t, because that is what happens when the unthinkable occurs. A mind attached to a specific outcome cannot comprehend any other outcome, as anything other than what it has imagined feels like a threat to your survival.
That relationship, no matter how many red flags persisted throughout our two and a half years together—never having said “I love you” to one another, always feeling like I was just trying to prove myself, consistently being told “can’t you just be more of this or less of that,” to name just a few—was a matter of survival for me. Without it, my mind thought I would literally die.
In retrospect, I can clearly see I was a woman attached.
The relationship had been a lifeline for me when we first met. Fresh on the heels of losing my dad, that man came into my life and made me feel something when life had all but lost feeling. Without him, I thought I would lose it all (the irony being, of course, that a relationship born in attachment will lose it all anyway).
Our relationship had been built on a shaky foundation of codependency and fleeting physical chemistry, and having never experienced a truly healthy relationship before, I couldn’t make sense of how a connection that had once felt so alive couldn’t be somehow fixed or saved. Breaking up was simply not a scenario that existed in my worldview.
Beyond the Unthinkable
I would like to say that you do not, in fact, die when the unthinkable happens. But the truth is, you kind of do.
That is, at least a part of you does.
Perhaps more accurately stated, a version of who you’ve known yourself to be up until that point starts to wither and asks to be let go.
It’s the part of you that thinks you need to stay in a relationship that isn’t empowering you, or the part of you that thinks you need to stay in a dead-end job that’s out of alignment with your heart’s desires, or it may even be the part of you that thinks you cannot say no to friends who ultimately don’t bring out your best.
Whatever scenario is most relevant to your current situation, the attachment to staying somewhere that is not empowering for your heart and soul is ultimately a reflection of how you once learned things needed to be in order for you to survive.
It is no coincidence or surprise, then, that when the thing you are attached to is ripped away, what’s left is a gaping hole into the depth of your shadow. If you’ve never faced your shadow before, it can feel terrifying to do so. That is why, as was my experience, we often find ourselves in a state of denial about what has happened.
Denial allows us to hang on to what was instead of facing what is. And what is, is this—a doorway into your very own path of soul initiation; a moment in which you are given a choice to either stay how you’ve been or face what has been swept into darkness so that you can begin to be free.
The Threshold of a Soul Encounter
For me, that doorway came one week later when I woke up the following Saturday morning and found myself facing a hard truth I had not yet seen or known: On my own for the first time, I actually had no idea what to do with myself or how to spend my time.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. There, standing in the bathroom that morning and staring at myself in the mirror, I reached the threshold of all great soul encounters: I realized I simply could not keep living this way any longer.
I could no longer bear the weight; the center had officially broken.
Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed my journal, sat on my couch, and began to write about the experience of the breakup and all the thoughts and feelings I had encountered over the past week.
And that’s when it happened.
It came like a flash of lightning. As I was recounting a scene from a few days prior when I’d run into my newly ex-boyfriend and felt my mood drop from feeling somewhat okay to feeling excruciating pain and despair, I noticed that my response to seeing him was to retreat inward. I realized in that moment something that I had never been able to see before: When you retreat, you can’t feel the pain anymore.
The sensation of retreating to ultimately being withdrawn was something I’d felt many times in my life before, but it wasn’t until that moment that I realized the withdrawal was a form of self-protection: In order to stop feeling any pain that a part of me thought I wouldn’t be able to survive, I simply removed myself from it.
As I continued to journal, I began to see how for much of my adult life, I had made choices to avoid feeling pain. Like staying in a relationship that wasn’t good for my heart for far too long, I often opted for the perceived safety of what was familiar instead of being true to myself by making choices that honored my heart.
When I really got to the bottom of it, I realized that the pain I had experienced that I had so diligently been avoiding over the years stemmed from believing that there was something outside of myself that could deem me worthy of love and acceptance.
I had long been living as a woman terrified of being rejected and unloved to the point where I might literally die, and it showed.
Ultimately, it was in those pages that I began connecting the dots of my life and how I’d come to be someone who stayed in a relationship out of fear rather than real love.
Perhaps more directly put, I was meeting my shadow.
The Encounter is Just the Beginning
The insights I gained that day did not, unfortunately, make everything in my life immediately fall into place and feel better again. What they did do, however, was jump start my journey into real healing and inner growth on a level I had never been able to access before. That day, on my living room sofa, standing in front of life’s metaphorical wide open plain, I was given the gift of meeting my soul.
The path hasn’t been easy, but facing your shadows and getting acquainted with your soul isn’t meant to be. It is meant to shake you to your core, to make you face the parts of yourself you’ve been too afraid to look at and learn to befriend them so that you can uncover the strength, wisdom, and heart you didn’t even know you had.
Following the call of my soul to honor my heart took time, patience, gentleness, support, curiosity, and a whole lot of practice and faith to see myself through the darkness, but the rewards have been sweet: No longer automatically shutting down at the first sign of pain, I now know that the love I had been so afraid of not getting was within me the whole time, just waiting to be known.
It’s been just over six years since the breakup, and I can say with the utmost confidence, it’s been worth every word journaled, every tear shed, and every painful moment encountered on the way down and back.
In the end, you may not willingly choose the hard things that happen in your life (I certainly would not have chosen to be broken up with at the time), but when you find the fabric of your reality starting to rip at the seams, and you are standing on the precipice of the very depths of your soul, you are being given one of life’s greatest gifts: to meet yourself as you are and, ultimately, to know yourself as you came here to be.
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8 Things to Remember When You’re at Your Lowest
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.” ~Haruki Murakami
Last year was both the hardest year of my life and the most transformative. My partner and I had started in vitro fertilization after years of infertility. The daily hormone injections and invasive procedures were tough, but when we saw two blue lines on the pregnancy test, we fell utterly in love with our growing baby.
Around the same time, my mother, a warm and practical person, had an unexplained manic episode that lasted for months. Unable to sleep, she became tormented by her own mind. On one occasion she went missing late at night. On another she destroyed treasured household objects. Far away from family, I was alone in helping to care for my elderly parents in crisis.
Not long after, I started to lose the baby. I bled for three weeks. A week later, I rushed to the emergency room late one night, seriously ill, to discover I was at risk of sepsis. The experience was harder than I could have imagined. It was as though I had lost the love of my life, but with no funeral or public acknowledgment.
Around this time, I fell ill with Covid and never quite recovered. The following months were a blur of insomnia, leg pain, racing heart, ringing ears, and pressure in my head, throat, and chest. My symptoms were worse at night, when my heart raced at the slightest noise and adrenaline surged through my body. Small activities, like doing the dishes, showering, or walking up a flight of stairs, wore me out. Even socializing became exhausting.
When I was at my lowest, my sister was also in crisis. Growing up, we had been inseparable. She was fiercely affectionate, funny, and brilliant but struggled with her mental health and was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in her twenties. Last year, she experienced a prolonged psychotic episode that manifested as extreme rage. She wrote countless emails to the family saying she was going to kill herself and it was our fault. Then she disappeared completely.
Months later, when I was starting to recover from long Covid, I got pregnant and miscarried again. This time, the doctors said the embryo had likely implanted outside the uterus and could cause a rupture if it grew too big. For weeks I went for blood tests and internal scans nearly every other day. At night I lay awake in panic.
Since that time, my long Covid has worsened. I struggle to make it through each day while holding down a job. After multiple attempts to reconcile with my sister, I think about her every day, worried for her well-being and devastated for the loss of our relationship. But when I find myself swept away by despair, insights keep arriving like small gifts on my doorstep.
After a lifetime of people-pleasing and perfectionism, my hardships taught me to advocate unapologetically for my needs and live more in the moment. My grief gave birth to a profound sense of self-compassion. I saw for the first time that my intrinsic value as a human being was not dependent on accomplishing things or pleasing others.
Losing my health taught me to appreciate the gifts I do have: a partner who loved me through my darkest hours, caring family and friends, and a stable job and home. And perhaps most importantly, I learned to treasure my own sense of possibility.
I know these hardships are not unusual. Many people have experienced chronic illness, infertility, miscarriage, or family mental illness. I hope these reflections might offer some solace to others who are also suffering.
1. Your suffering is not your fault.
Your profound loss cannot be reframed or therapized away. All you can do is listen and love yourself when the pain hits like a wave, and know that the wave will pass over. Try not to blame yourself for these terrible feelings. They are a healthy response to real tragedies. There is nothing you could have done to prevent this, and you don’t need to improve.
2. There is no shame in being unwell.
Yes, you have been hurt, but you are not broken. You are whole and complete. You don’t need to work hard at healing—it will happen in its own time. You are allowed to ask for help. This is part of the journey of recovering autonomy. You will not feel powerless forever. Remember how much you have healed already and how strong you have become.
3. It’s okay to find sources of distraction.
You are allowed to feel happy—it does not mean you have forgotten what you lost. It is okay to prioritize yourself and tend to your smallest desires and needs. You have worked so hard to take care of others, prepare for the future, and do the right thing. If there is ever a time to let go of obligation, that time is now.
4. You do not have to be brave.
You are allowed to be weak and afraid, angry and resentful, or petty and indulgent. You are allowed to be whatever it is you are at this moment. It is enough to simply make it through the day, to feed yourself or ti ask for time off work (please ask for time off work!). It is okay to be contradictory and complicated and to embrace your shadow aspects.
5. There is nothing wrong with being alone.
Pretending to be okay in front of others is exhausting, but so is mustering up the courage to share your struggles. Some people may disappoint you. Most don’t know how to respond to suffering, but everyone has a gift they can offer. Some will distract you, others will hold your hand, or remind you that you are not alone. You can discover these gifts in your own time.
6. You don’t need to be rational, and you don’t need to have faith either.
But you can gently move in the direction of all sources of comfort, from a cup of hot chocolate or an afternoon nap to the intangible solace of dreams. You can imagine spirits caring for you in your time of need or loved ones holding you in their arms. Envision a trip to a beautiful place. Remain open to mysterious and everyday sources of joy.
7. You will discover gifts that you never knew existed.
Your ability to self-advocate can turn exhaustion and overwhelm into rest and relaxation. Your capacity for gratitude can remind you of all that is well within your body and your life. Your sense of humor can reveal absurdity in even the darkest moments. By tapping into these resources, you will be better prepared for hardship in the future.
8. Every end is a new beginning.
New hopes will emerge where old ones have ended. Lean into the kind of hope that is not attached to an outcome but that fosters excited anticipation. The script of your life is unwritten and filled with potential. The unknown can be scary, but it is also where magic and mystery dwell. Remain open to new ways of being and to the possibility of a beautiful future.
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The Art of Bereavement: A Simple Creative Practice for the Grieving
“When we lose someone we love we must learn not to live without them, but to live with the love they left behind.” ~Unknown
If I look like my best friend just died, that’s because he has. Not the one whom I played with every day growing up and haven’t seen in years, nor the one with whom I went to high school and stayed connected with on social media.
No. I lost my very best friend of nearly four decades. My gay “husband,” who lived with me for fourteen years and helped me raise my two youngest sons, from ages three and six until they grew up and left our nest. The same human who I loved endlessly and drove me crazy, not in equal parts because our connection was so strong and the “driving crazy” went along with the complete love package.
I lost the friend who made me laugh like no other human being ever has or will, who has left a hole so big in my heart that I am sure a doctor listening to my chest would know.
As an artist and art therapist, I have found much purpose working in grief and bereavement. The benefits of the visual arts in this work are well documented, with reports of greatly improved well-being, meaning making, and continuing bonds with those who have passed.
And yet, knowing all this, serving many others in this difficult journey, and even losing my own father, my very best friend leaving the earth brought forward a new level of something. Pain? Yes, of course; the raw kind that physically rips through the body and soul, abates, and begins again. Loss? Like nothing I have ever felt or can describe. Grief? I am not sure I even knew what the word meant, until now.
But here’s what I didn’t anticipate: a deeply felt different “frequency” of love that was equally as palpable as my pain.
Ironically, it occurred as I was leading a grief retreat called “The Art of Bereavement,” only two weeks after my best friend transitioned.
It didn’t result from a discussion of dreams, mediums, or strange sightings, although this particular group was eager to share their experiences with all of these things. It happened through the very practice I was offering.
Since the workshop was only ninety minutes, I had decided on mixed media, which is typically engaging to everyone—paints in every color and a plethora of collage materials like magazines, textured papers, sand, glitter, stickers, and shells. These would be used on round canvases as symbolic “mandalas,” which have been found in art therapy to contain difficult emotions and are known for soothing the soul.
After explaining the process and materials, I guided the group inward through a short meditation. I began working on my mandala alongside them, choosing materials my friend would love: zebra paper, a touch of leopard, glitter, black paint, and a few rhinestones; words to our favorite song from Evita.
Suddenly, I noticed something stirring deep inside my being, I felt the love of my departed friend coming forward in a powerful, beautiful way that I had never experienced in life.
Since I was teaching, I was completely caught off guard, but there it was. Rather than dismissing what was happening, I spontaneously shared with my group.
In that moment, as a result, something else as equally profound occurred: the people I was facilitating in their heart-wrenching grief began holding the space for mine.
A few of them paused their work and gathered around me. They asked questions—who he was to me, why I had chosen the materials I chose, what I would miss the most. With tears streaming down my face, I told them… he was a special kind of soulmate with a connection that could not be compared to anyone else. He was a brilliant artist, my dearest friend and my family.
I shared that he will make me laugh forever and how I am not sure what life can possibly be like without him. I let them know how devastated I was for my sons, who had also lost their birth father several years after we divorced. Someone hugged me and another cried. They all listened intently while looking at my mandala, honoring my loss alongside of theirs.
As the teacher became the student, I was humbled. And the profound love I had experienced was now filling the room. No longer were we separated by any notion of “retreat” or “therapist.” We were fully united as humans, in the ubiquitous experience of deep loss and love.
I was moved to ask if anyone else wanted to bring their departed loved one into the room, through the art they were making and the materials they had chosen.
A moment didn’t pass before everyone was taking turns. Someone’s wife had spent all of her free time in nature, so her mandala was covered with trees. A young woman’s sister had adored her cat, so hers was covered with images of kittens. For a departed husband, musical notes and a guitar symbolized his passion for song.
The mandalas were full of rainbows, words, landscapes, and hearts, all lifting up the essence of those who were no longer with us. And yet, through image, symbol, and metaphor, each and every one of them was there.
As I closed the group, I deeply thanked everyone for holding the space for my grief, something I will never forget. I gave thanks to them for attending, as well as to the energies of their lost loved ones for being present. I invited them to continue working on and visiting with their mandalas, whenever they were called. I reminded them to honor the kittens and rainbows, to sing favorite songs and to creatively stay connected, in whatever way made sense for them.
I let them know how grief is completely different for everyone, that there is no right or wrong, and that they should each follow whatever path worked, including seeking outside support.
Inviting everyone to take a few more final deep breaths together, I lifted up the idea of sharing the profound human connection we had all experienced that day, reminding them that we are never really alone in our loss. And, as they had all helped me, they each had the capacity to help someone else.
“In the end,” I said, “we are all both teachers and students. Namaste.”
At Home “Art of Bereavement” Practice
If you’d like to create your own art to honor the loss of someone you loved and help process your feelings, give this practice a try.
Grief work can be extremely difficult, and many communities offer free grief groups and counseling services. If any part of this practice becomes too challenging, please honor your experience and move to something else. There is no right, wrong, good or bad to grief work, including the artmaking.
Materials: heavy paper, preferably watercolor or mixed media
Special photos, meaningful writing or words, images symbolic of your loved one from google or magazines, stickers, paint, glue, any scrapbooking materials, or tissues.
1. Get quiet.
Eyes opened or closed, notice whatever is coming up in your body. Do your best to breathe into it or around it, just for a few minutes.
2. Bring to mind a special memory of your loved one, tuning into the sensory experience.
What colors do you see? What sounds stand out? What do you feel? If any of this becomes too difficult, focus only on your breath.
3. Draw a circle on your paper, either freehand or by tracing a round shape.
4. Allow the materials to “call.”
Without much thought, begin using your materials to collage and paint inside of your circle.
5. Tune in.
Art materials are a wonderful path to mindfulness. Notice how the paint flows, the paper sounds, and the textures feel.
6. Open to the experience.
If tears come, let them flow; if you need a break, step aside.
7. Take your time.
Once you feel “done,” reflect on your work and how you are feeling. Notice if this creative approach has helped you in any way.
8. Honor the image.
Put your art in a special place where you can visit with it when you are moved to do so. If it feels right, share your art with loved ones.
9. Be gentle with yourself.
Give yourself love and compassion for doing this work and be sure to seek outside support if needed.
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I Won’t Let My Losses Break Me: How I’m Choosing Growth
Loss is confronting. But I ask you to please walk beside me while I address this most challenging aspect of life.
Losing those we love.
While loss is inevitable, it is something that we always think happens to others.
Until it happens to us.
The last six months I have had a steep learning curve on loss.
The spiral began in May this year.
On May 18th, my partner suddenly walked out. I was blindsided. Heartbroken. I would later learn the truth about his duplicity. But that is fodder for a memoir at a later date.
Two weeks after my partner left, my beautiful horse died in a freak accident.
A month later, my father, with whom I was incredibly close, passed away unexpectedly.
A month after my dad’s passing, my ex-husband, my daughter’s father, died suddenly.
Plunged into pain and darkness, I didn’t know when or how I would surface. Grief is devastating and incredibly raw. It brings you to your knees.
This is when I learned the term cumulative grief.
Cumulative grief is described as a series of losses that compound, not giving you enough time to process one loss before incurring another. Like tumultuous swell in the ocean, you barely get a chance to draw breath in between ‘waves.’
And I was drowning.
Drowning in the loss of a man I thought I knew, the loss of my beautiful father, and the loss of my ex-husband. And my darling horse would no longer be there to greet me at the gate.
A paradigm shift occurs when you suffer such dire despair. The first is you face your own darkness, and the second is that you learn the mettle of those around you.
In facing my own darkness, I was stripped bare emotionally. I could no longer avoid those places inside that had long needed to heal. As I was tossed about in the ‘waves,’ I gained a certain clarity and insight into my strengths and weaknesses and had no choice but to confront them.
Learning the mettle of those around me was eye-opening. Some quietly disappeared from my life, others avoided me, and then there were the glorious few who dove in beside me to help navigate the rough seas, steering me through my anguish and taking over the wheel of the ship when necessary.
Loss is a terrible thing.
We like predictability, certainty, and security. Loss robs us of this. Like a thief in the night, it comes out of nowhere. Once touched by it, our perspective is changed forever.
What I learned is that even in grief and despair, we evolve. I call this the evolution of loss. Life at any age is not static. These losses proved an incredible catalyst for introspection, transformation, and wisdom.
I learned that control is merely an illusion.
The only control we have is over ourselves. Our choices, and our reactions, govern the direction of the ship. We can sink or we can swim.
Sinking was not an option with a grieving teen daughter who had lost a father and a grandfather. The loss of our fathers intrinsically bound us.
I chose to tread water amidst those pounding waves of grief. Then I chose to swim for shore.
Have I changed? Yes. Irrevocably. I look at life through different eyes. But this is not a bad thing. I appreciate more, I count my blessings.
On the days I grieve, I embrace the altered seascape of my life. When the big swells come, I ride them out until the waters are serene again. Grieving is one step forward, two steps back, until you reach a level of acceptance.
I am restoring my sense of agency, diving headfirst into things I have always enjoyed but never made time for. I have learned many things about myself.
I inherited my father’s love of writing. Now I write—all the time.
I spend endless hours in the garden, growing roses and vegetables.
My other horse is due to have a baby on Christmas Day.
After four years out of the workforce, I got a new job in medical research, which is interesting and varied.
I started an advocacy group for teens to recognize toxic relationships. I plan to write a program for schools.
I have joined new groups and met new people.
I am here today because I made a choice not to let someone’s duplicitous actions and the unfortunate events of life shatter me forever.
Loss can break you or it can help you grow. You get to choose.
Always.
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The Magic of the Mountain: My Perfect Healing Recipe
When I woke up this morning, the first thing I did was a guided meditation titled “Cultivating Joy.” In this meditation I was taken back to a time when I felt joy. The first thing that popped into my mind was a time about three weeks ago; my husband, my dog Lily, and I had traveled to Wintergreen Resort to celebrate my birthday.
Wintergreen has always been a magical place for me. I was born and raised in the same county, but just on the other side of the mountain. My idea of a birthday celebration has become much less of a party and more of an ungregarious celebration hidden among the beauties of Mother Nature.
It was here, at an elevation of about 3,500 feet, surrounded by the beautiful Blue Ridge, that my soul just magically became lighter. It was a spectacular sunrise of pinks and oranges that exposed the beautiful blue peaks and the fall foliage.
Sitting on the second story balcony of a condo high on a ridge just above the ski slopes, I sipped my coffee and chicory blend with Lily guarding me. It was here that I felt a peaceful joy surge through my veins and entire body. I was overcome by this feeling; it had been too many years since it had visited.
This is truly my magical healing place. It is here in the encapsulation of the mountains where I feel as if I am receiving a hug from the Universe, safe, warm, and nurturing. It feels like coming home.
It has been a rough couple of years. In 2021, my career as an educator came to a disappointing end. I started teaching in 1999 and loved it. It was my calling. In 2011, I received my master’s degree in education administration and leadership. My goal was to change education.
I laugh aloud as I type this, as it was naïve and unachievable. The hierarchy of education wanted yes-people to run their schools, not people like me who wanted to fix the problems. I was an administrator for three years and returned to the classroom for my last six. It was the fallout of COVID that started my quick exit, and I retired on the last day of 2021.
It was a decision that would serve me well. Teaching negatively impacted my physical and mental health and my quality of life. Teaching in public school for over twenty years, working second jobs, and being married to a retired Army Warrant Officer had, however, afforded me the opportunity to retire in my fifties. Once I retired, I would spend the next almost two years mourning this career and feeling like I had failed.
In late August of 2022, I was getting ready to start teaching fourth grade in a wonderful small private school, that gives me hope for education. It was one week before classes started that my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic and lung cancer. She moved in with us, and I quit my job to care for her.
It was a long and hard nine months, and five days later, on May 31, 2023, she died and the grieving started.
I had been experiencing anticipatory grief for the nine months of her illness, but death grief, I found, was quite different. I am an only child, and I was Mom’s primary caregiver. Mom and I loved each other but were as different as night and day. Our relationship had always been contentious. We failed to understand or appreciate each other and our vast differences.
Mom was not an emotional person, and I always felt inadequate and uncomfortable around her. She never adored me, I never felt as if I could do enough, no matter what I did, and this did not change with her illness. There was no end-of-life epiphany for her, nothing she wanted to share. Just regret on my part that we could never connect as mother and daughter.
It was not until a couple of weeks after I left Wintergreen that I realized I had arrived at the mountain with anxiety and a shit-ton of baggage, and I left with none of it. I had been trying to grieve, trying to forgive, trying to move forward, and trying to heal from past experiences. While I felt like there were things that helped me open up and be ready, it was what I will now call the “magic of the mountain” that truly healed me.
I realized that I had not felt peace and joy like this in over a decade. I had been so bogged down and stuck in life that I could not heal, forgive, and move forward.
I’ve felt joyful every day since we left the mountain, and my whole mindset has changed. I have, after a lifetime of anger and pain, forgiven my mom for what she did not know or was not capable of.
I realize that everything I had needed and missed from my mother was in these mountains. These mountains provide me safety, warmth, and nurturing. The warm embrace of the hugs and acceptance I always needed, I find here. Since then, I have been able to recall this nurturing feeling, by traveling back to the day that this magical mountain healed me.
For my whole fifty-seven years on Earth, I had wanted Mom to adore me, to nurture me, and to be the mother I needed, but that was not who she was. I have through this experience, with the help of this magical mountain, learned that I have everything I need to nurture myself. Mom gave me all she could, and my only regret is she is not here for me to tell her that it’s okay. We meet people where they are.
I stopped beating myself up over my educational career, and I realized that season was over for me. I am in an “exploring my hobbies” phase. Thanks to my mom, I have that gift of time to explore my passions. I thought I could only be valued by others and value myself if I worked, but that is far from the truth. Our careers or jobs are not the essence of who we are. If that is all we have, we may need to explore why.
I have let my family, especially my grown children, off the hook for my emotional well-being. No guilt trips here, just love and adoration to accept them and their choices. And for my amazing husband, I have done less whining and moaning about my “issues.” I have had some form of anxiety my whole life, but I am so much better. Healing this baggage and moving forward has changed me.
I am not saying that one trip to the mountains will magically heal you. I have been working on my healing for many years in a variety of ways. I do believe that yoga, meditation, mindfulness, spirituality, and energy healing have provided me with the skills and openness to heal, to change my story and perspective.
I had to be open to receive the “magic of the mountain,” Mother Nature, and the gifts the Universe gives us to heal ourselves. It is my belief that healing is our responsibility, and it is also an individual thing, not a one-size-fits-all journey.
I am just grateful that after a lifetime of various issues and struggles that I feel that I have found my perfect healing recipe. It is my hope that each one of you reading this will find yours as well and experience the level of joy and peace that I have found in the last few weeks. It has been a long time coming.
And if it feels like all your healing efforts are not yielding any results, stick with the process and be patient with yourself. Be still, be open, and be silent, for it is in these moments when true magic visits our soul. Never stop believing or looking for the magic. Your magical moment could be right around the corner.
