The Grief and the Grace

I have been absolutely immersed in books, podcasts, and workshops on spirituality and consciousness since Graham’s death. But why? 

For me, the more I learn about these topics, the more I am given hope. Comfort. Transformation.

As many of you know, because of the circumstances surrounding Graham’s death, the very moment I learned that he was, indeed, deceased, I also received confirmation that he was so well in spirit.

This brought me such hope. In fact, more than hope. It brought me a knowing that my son was better than well. He was “beaming with all these lovely souls on the other side.” These were the precise words of the psychic-medium who helped us find Graham after he had been missing for three weeks, with no clues or leads.

And this hope—this knowing, rather—brought incredible comfort. I had to be happy for him, even as I was heartbroken for me. And so began the transformation. A transformation in my relationship with Graham on the other side, and a transformation in my own spiritual path. I began to pay attention. To listen. To tune in.

In a book I have just begun and am already loving, "Moving Beyond" by Fleur Leussink, she speaks about our unique “spiritual bodies.” She invites us to spend time each day with our eyes closed, locating the part of our bodies that feels like our spirit body, rather than simply our physical form.

She reminds us that the mind is not the origin of our intuition or our connection with those on the other side. We must learn to feel ourselves as spirit, quiet the rational mind, and become receptive. She describes communication with the spirit world as a practice of attuning our spiritual bodies to the right signal, since each person in spirit has their own unique signal.

Those moments when we feel tuned in are beautiful and meaningful. Transformative, really. And I imagine most of us know when we’ve experienced them. There may be a shiver, a sensation, or a feeling that washes over us. Sometimes, these moments arrive without any effort at all. They may come when we are simply in the flow of the present moment. And what brings us into that state of flow is different for each of us.

What I have learned, though, is that deep grief blocks those moments. That is why grief is the human veil. And we must honor the grief.

And those moments of connection, even when we experience them, do not prevent the moments of deep grief that can wipe us off our feet and bring us back to our knees. I recently experienced exactly that. I wasn't expecting it, although looking back, I can see what led me there.

I had been reading about intuition and remembering so many moments during the search for Graham that I hadn't even recognized as intuition at the time. Like the dream I had of lotus flowers—symbols of rebirth and awakening. And they were floating on water. Or the moment during my session with Kelle when I heard myself say, “I wondered if he’s in a lake somewhere.” The words seemed to spill out of my mouth before I had even fully considered them. Looking back, I see these as moments of intuition. Moments when something within me knew more than my conscious mind could grasp.

But then, that remembering led me down a spiral of regret.

I should have intuited what was going to happen. I'm his mom. I should have known.

It was a slightly different version of what I have come to call "the relentless What ifs and If onlys." Those familiar spirals in which I try, once again, to stop his death. To somehow rewrite what happened.

What I've come to learn is that even when my heart, mind, spirit, and soul know I could not have changed what happened, sometimes I still have to go down the rabbit hole. I have to cry. Sob. Wail. Kick. Thrash. I have to talk aloud to Graham. I have to let the regret and second-guessing move through me.

Because it is, after all, another layer of grief.

I have to re-enter that veil where I can break down, fall apart, and slowly reconfigure. There is no shortcut. No bypass. No matter how many awe-filled moments I’ve had, these agony filled ones are undeniable. And the awe-filled moments are out of reach entirely if we do not honor the heartbreak.

I believe that when I resist, suppress, or try to move too quickly through my grief, something within me remains constricted. When I allow the tears to come, when I honor what hurts rather than trying to reason my way out of it, something begins to soften.

The tears create space. They are a purging of sorts. They help me release the human doubts and questions that can stifle my connection.

And perhaps that is part of the sacred work of grief: allowing ourselves to move through the pain as it calls, while remaining open to the love and connection that endure.

That is why I believe grief is the human veil.

So, I find myself wondering:

What helps you to honor and move through your grief?

What helps you enter a state of flow, opening yourself to connection?

And most important of all: Can we do both?

I believe we not only can but must.

We can honor the heartbreak of being human while remaining open to the mystery of what lies beyond it. We can allow grief to bring us to our knees while still making room for moments of connection, meaning, and even joy. The two are not mutually exclusive. In fact, I believe they belong together.

If you feel called to explore the fullness of your grief while nurturing your openness to connection, we would be honored to walk alongside you at our Sacred Journey With Grief Retreat in the beautiful rainforest of Belize, February 21–28.

Our early-bird discount is available through November 25.

We would love to connect with you, answer your questions, and share more about this sacred week together. If you are at all inclined—even just curious—please reach out to schedule a free discovery call.