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Whew. Another tender date has passed. Mother’s Day is not my favorite day, and I suspect I’m not alone in that. As a teenager and young adult, I often bypassed my own grief around Mama’s death when I was only twelve. I intentionally focused on the wonderful female figures in my life—my stepmom, sisters, and girlfriends. I expressed gratitude to them with gifts, flowers, and cards. Somehow, this felt like a way of honoring my mom. And in appreciating the gifts of the feminin

Dear Beautiful Beings, I’m truly grateful for your presence and for the way you receive these newsletters. Your willingness to read and engage means more than I can say, and I hope each one offers something meaningful to you. I also want to share that I’ll be moving to ONE newsletter per month—both to honor your time and to ensure what I send feels intentional rather than overwhelming. So here we go with April’s! What’s been most present on my heart lately is ceremony. I’m st

Recently I returned to Chaa Creek in Belize where we’d just hosted our Sacred Journey With Grief Retreat only a month before. I felt called back, perhaps even guided by Graham when the flight on his birthday was inexplicably half the price of all others within weeks. I was thrilled to be invited back by my dear friend Bryony, daughter of Chaa Creek’s founders and now its managing director. We’d met in the ’90s when she was my student at the Academy of the Sacred Heart in Lou

I recently listened to a podcast that reminded me of the many powerful ways our loved ones in spirit show us they never truly leave. They find countless ways to communicate with us, nudging us gently or simply letting us feel that they are still loving us deeply from the other side. Personally, I’ve immersed myself in podcasts and books that reinforce this message. And I’ve felt it from my son, Graham, repeatedly. In fact, it was Graham’s powerful presence after his death—a

I found myself thinking about daybreak in the rainforest of Belize, where we had just returned from our inaugural Sacred Journey With Grief retreat. Sunrise there doesn’t feel gradual the way it does in the Colorado mountains. Instead, it’s as if a shade begins slowly lifting. Within minutes, pitch-black darkness gives way to daylight. At that exact moment, the birds begin to chirp. Some are subtle yet steady. Others louder and more insistent. You can hear them before you ev

It feels almost futile to try to put words to the unimaginable that unfolded before our eyes—and within our hearts—at our inaugural Sacred Journey With Grief Retreat in Belize. Language feels profoundly inadequate to capture the beauty of the transformations we experienced and witnessed together. What unfolded was sacred. What emerged was powerful. Because of this experience, the guides—Lisa, Jess, and I—feel more anchored, more devoted, and more passionate than ever about o

The days of this past week have felt sacred to me. Each day marked a five-year anniversary, leading up to the day when we located and retrieved Graham’s body from the frozen lake through which he’d fallen on New Year’s Day. We could finally say goodbye. The presence of those anniversaries—all thirty-eight days of them-- has been palpable. Each year, it has felt as though my body knew before my mind did—carrying the memory somatically, long before I named it. The body truly ke

We often associate grief with the profound emotions that follow the death of someone we love. While this is certainly one of the most obvious forms of grief, grief is far more expansive. It can live quietly within us through countless other moments and losses or scream for attention at the most unexpected times. One loss may awaken the emotions of another that has been lying dormant for years. The Conscious Grieving™ model identifies five specific forms of grief, each of w

This is a poignant time for me. For thirty-eight days, from January 1-- the day my son Graham went missing, and we later learned, the day he fell through the frozen lake-- until February 7, when we ultimately located and retrieved his body, I mark each 5-year anniversary with ritual and remembrance. January 20 was the day my friend Heather prayed with me for Graham to be found. I had nearly canceled, but something—or someone—told me I needed to be there. It feels like mystery

Countless times over the past five years, I’ve asked myself, Where is my light? Yes, I’ve been grieving. Yes, everything shifted after my son Graham died. But wasn’t I still the same person? Didn’t I still possess that lightheartedness, that humor, that instinct to savor—or create—moments worth savoring, just as my beloved dad had taught me? I noticed the zip was missing. Joy no longer arrived as easily. There were still moments of beauty and gladness, but the texture of ev

Many of us enter the new year with resolutions — promises to do more of this or less of that. But what if, instead, we welcomed the year with the intention of being more fully? Of inhabiting our lives more completely — showing up as our fullest, truest selves, present with both our joy and our heartbreak. What if we allowed grief to be a teacher, a sacred and wise guide, rather than something to escape or quickly replace? Setting the intention to be fully shifts the energ

“Happy New Year” — words I’ve struggled to receive for the past four years. Happy? This date marks the saddest day of my life. It is the day my son died. What the world celebrates as a beginning is, for me, a day forever shaped by loss. For the last five years, those well-intended wishes landed painfully. I carried unwelcome resentment—even toward innocent strangers offering kindness--but how could they know? And even if they did, how could they possibly rewrite an age-old

This New Year’s Day marks the five-year anniversary of my son Graham’s death. Though I feel I have worked through this loss cognitively, emotionally, and spiritually, it continues to reside in my body. Grief, I’m increasingly realizing, is not only something we understand and process—it is something we carry. The recent windstorms in Boulder County made this especially clear. In an already tender season, the intensity of the winds heightened emotions and stirred anxiety, acti

As the holidays rush in, busyness can often overshadow our grief. In that distraction, we may assume we are better—and at times, we may be. But what does better really mean? If our grief is merely quieted, rather than honored and attended to, it often resurfaces in unexpected ways—leaving us shattered and questioning whether the joy we felt was truly joy at all. When grief is honored in all its depth and capacity, joy can coexist with it. Joy does not bury our grief; it su

What is it about the holidays that sets in motion a force so determined to unearth our grief? Even when we believe we’re prepared—when we’ve done what we can to be with it, tend to it, honor it—we still hope, on some level, that we’ve contained it. Wrapped it up neatly. Tucked it away like the other packages under the tree. And then something as simple and well-intended as “Happy Holidays” can tear that ribbon clean off. In an instant, you’re knocked off center. Emotions surg

One holiday down, and more still ahead. “Thank goodness Thanksgiving is over,” some of us say. For many who are grieving, this season becomes something to endure rather than enjoy. The bright celebrations around us can make our sorrow feel even heavier, intensifying the ache of gratitude we’re “supposed” to feel. And the quick leap into the Christmas spirit—the lights, the cheer, the insistence on joy—can feel impossibly out of reach. Grief heightens everything—old wounds,

This week, from miles away, I joined via Facebook Live in the funeral service for Meshack Yahani Eliah—a man I’d only met a handful of times. I cried along with his family and friends, mourning as I joined in prayerful songs sung in a language I do not speak or understand. I met Meshack perhaps five times over about fifteen years of visits to Chaa Creek in Belize. It’s fair to say we didn’t know each other well. He was a nature guide there, and if I was lucky, I might have jo

Honoring Grief's Sacred Rhythm. As winter comes and daylight dims, the call inward grows strong. Yet, as the holidays approach, our culture beckons us outward. For those of us who have lost a loved one, this time of year can bring a heightened alertness. Our nervous systems begin preparing for what we know will amplify our pain. These alerts can show up in countless ways—sometimes subtle, sometimes overwhelming, and often without our full awareness. I recently came upon wor

I’ve never been a big fan of Halloween. The monsters, skeletons, and witches scare me, and I dislike seeing our children bombarded with candy and sugar. But that’s the commercialism. I was missing the deeper point. Lisa, who is guiding our upcoming Sacred Journey With Grief Retreat (February 8-15, 2026) with Jess and me, has helped me to see this season differently. Her words below have inspired a more meaningful perspective. The change in seasons is palpable. The harvest

In some ways the more time passes after the death of a loved one, the harder things become. The rituals begin to fade. People’s expectations shift. And even if we believe our loved ones are “well” in spirit, the newness of that understanding begins to fade. As time moves on, friends and family often feel they shouldn’t bring it up . But it is always up for those left behind. I remembered one family gathering over a holiday break sometime after my son Graham’s death. Thou