Writing has always been a source of comfort for me, but it wasn’t until I experienced profound grief that I truly understood its healing power. When words fail in conversation, they seem to flow effortlessly onto the page, allowing me to process emotions I didn’t even know I was carrying.
“Human suffering anywhere concerns men and women everywhere.” ― Elie Wiesel, Night
"Some days I stand with my face in the sunshine, while other days I search to hold your hand in the darkness from your absence." The Heart of Grief
My husband and I are Digital Nomads who work remotely and travel quite a bit, and for the most part, it is fun and interesting. In early grief, however, after I lost my 20-year-old son, I never thought I’d leave my home, much less travel around the world.
Some people need to return to their routines; I needed to go far away to find myself and begin to heal from the loss of my son.
Sometimes food and family is all you need when a loved one dies.
While I resisted moving for so many months in early grief, I now need it as much as I need air to breathe. It's become a vital part of my healing that keeps my grief from stagnating.
I’m standing inside the Museum of Modern Art in New York City observing a drawing by one of the most iconic artists of the twentieth century, Pablo Picasso.
My body, no longer in homeostasis, sensed that an incredible void had disturbed its balance.
