Let it Flow -

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 words my daughter wrote on the anniversary of Graham's death. "Grief is powerful and most days I don't know what to do with all the sadness of losing Graham. It's hard to talk about him and it's hard not to talk about him. I found a book that he bought me and I flipped the page open to one with a receipt left in it. I burst into tears just holding the receipt, trying to connect in the sense that he had touched this piece of paper and now I was touching it too. And that's the thing about grief, you want to forget it all and put it in a box so that you don't have to feel the unpredictable, relentless pain and at the same time you're reaching in every way to feel them, to smell them, to hear them and to feel a connection with someone who's physically gone." Amelie’s words touched deeply, once again, naming the raw and real truth of grief’s paradox.

And with the holidays approaching, it’s as though, deep within our very cells, we brace for the ache we know will surface as we face the holidays without our loved one here in the flesh. It can be excruciating—and often is.

Sometimes, we fear allowing these feelings to rise. We worry that if we open the floodgates, we’ll never regain control. We fear what others might think, or that we’ll somehow be swept away by our grief. Yet, just as a tantruming child runs out of steam after about ten minutes, the body, too, can only sustain the raw surge of emotion for so long.

So, what would happen if we let it flow?

What if we honored the deepest, darkest, scariest parts of our grief?

What if we trusted that we are held in our pain?

That it is safe to be vulnerable, that the sunrise will follow the sunset?

What if we spoke to those parts—acknowledging that they are born from the purest essence of love?

What if we made plans for honoring our deceased loved ones in a way that feels nourishing and true?

Would the fear soften? Would the release create space for connection, for tenderness, perhaps even a smile through the tears? Might the tears themselves feel cleansing—or might the simple exhaustion that follows bring more peace than the constant tension of holding them in?

Balancing our need to feel both the heavy and the light can be delicate work. For me, that balance begins with deep listening—to what I truly need in each moment. To listen well, I must tend to my own state of well-being. I need a balance of connection—time with people—and time for solitude, to nourish, replenish, and reconnect with my soul.

To maintain that balance, and stay attuned to my inner voice, I’ve learned I need several things:

Sleep—to restore my body and spirit.

Movement—to release and renew energy, and often bike rides in honor of my son.

Nature--to reconnect with beauty and remember I’m part of something larger.

Prayer and Meditation—in whatever form my heart calls for. Sometimes that’s silent stillness, sometimes automatic writing, or simply pulling a card from one of my spiritual decks. The form doesn’t matter. What matters is that it resonates.

What do you need as you tend your broken heart and honor your soul’s calling?

What practices help you return to balance—so that you can hear your heart’s whisper?

What supports your grief through the holidays?