This past weekend carried a heavy duality—Valentine’s Day, a celebration of love, and the 21st anniversary of the loss of my daughter, Kara. The weight of both pressed into my chest, making it difficult to breathe at times. Grief and love have always walked hand in hand for me, each step a reminder that the depth of my sorrow is only matched by the depth of my love. They are not opposites but rather two sides of the same coin, forever entwined.

The Journey of Grief

Twenty-one years ago, I walked into the hospital with a heart full of anticipation. My second child, a daughter, was about to enter the world. I had imagined every detail—the soft weight of her in my arms, the first cries that would fill the room, the way her tiny fingers would curl around mine. But within an hour of arriving, my world shattered.

A hush fell over the delivery room as the monitors were silent. I heard the doctor’s voice, but the words felt distant, like echoes from another world. “I’m so sorry,” they said, but my mind rejected the meaning. The contrast was stark—almost unbearable. The nurses moved with such gentleness, their voices hushed and soothing, a stark contrast to the raw, unrelenting pain wracking my body. 

There had been no time for drugs, no moment to catch my breath. I had envisioned a natural labor, one where I could surrender to each contraction with minimal intervention. Instead, I was thrown into something violent and unyielding, my body laboring faster than medical intervention could keep up with. The room was filled with the sharp, rhythmic beeping of monitors, yet inside me, there was only silence—an emptiness that swallowed every sound, every hope.

As if my body mirrored my broken spirit, my placenta tore in half, and I teetered on the edge of life and death. Through the haze of pain, I caught a glimpse of my husband’s face. His eyes, wide with terror, held a fear I had never seen before—the fear of losing not just our daughter, but me as well. That image was the last thing I registered before darkness pulled me under.

When I awoke, it was to a reality colder than I could have ever imagined. They placed Kara in my arms, but nothing about it felt natural. She was still, her skin cool against my fevered hands. I had longed for her warmth, for the weight of a living, breathing child, but instead, she lay there, motionless. I pressed my lips to her forehead, willing life into her, but the silence remained. It was a silence that would follow me long after I left that hospital room—a silence that would settle into the deepest parts of my soul.

The years that followed became a blur of motion—keeping busy, avoiding the pain, pushing forward without truly feeling. But grief is patient. It waits. And fourteen years later, after enduring another significant trauma, the walls I had built to contain my sorrow crumbled. Everything I had buried surfaced, demanding to be acknowledged.

The Complexity of Grief

Grief is not a single emotion; it is a landscape of shifting terrain. Some describe it in stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—but my grief has never moved in a straight line. Instead, it spirals, unpredictable and raw, much like a child’s scribbled drawing, looping back onto itself. One moment, I am standing in the light, and the next, I am swallowed by a wave of sorrow so intense that it leaves me gasping for air.

Francis Weller, in The Wild Edge of Sorrow, speaks of the sacred work of grief, urging us to express it communally rather than carry it in isolation. Yet our society often sends the opposite message: “Move on. Get back to work.” But I have learned that grief is not something to “get over.” It is something to be integrated, honored, and carried with tenderness.

What I’m Learning About Grief

Grief is not a problem to be solved or a wound to be healed—it is a part of me now, reshaping who I am and how I move through the world. In its presence, I have discovered hard truths and unexpected lessons, reminders that grief is not just about loss but also about love. Here is what I am learning as I walk this path:

• Grief isn’t meant to be conquered; it is meant to be held with reverence and woven into the fabric of a new life.
• It ebbs and flows like breath—uncontrollable yet essential. Fighting against it only brings suffering.
• It reveals the profound truth that love and loss are inseparable. To love is to risk loss.
• Grief can isolate, or it can become a bridge that connects us to others who understand.
• My grief journey is uniquely mine. No one else’s experience dictates how I should grieve.
• The journey never truly ends, but each step offers new insights.
• I can grieve deeply and still embrace joy. I am not betraying my loss by living fully.

Grief Is Love Without a Place to Go

Jamie Anderson’s words resonate deeply: “Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest.”

For years, I fought against my grief, resenting it as an enemy that had stolen from me. But now, I see it differently. The love I had for Kara didn’t vanish—it has transformed. My grief is simply love that no longer has a physical recipient. And in accepting this, I can hold both love and loss simultaneously.

Non-Dualism and Our Both AND Nature

Non-dualism teaches that reality is not divided into strict opposites. Instead of being either one thing or another, life is a tapestry where seemingly opposing truths coexist. Light and shadow, joy and sorrow, love and loss—they are not separate forces but rather interwoven aspects of the same whole.

My yoga teacher, Scott Moore, calls this awareness our Both AND Nature. It is the understanding that we do not have to choose between states of being; we can hold multiple truths at once, even when they seem contradictory.

I am both a grieving mother and a woman embracing life’s beauty.
I am both heartbroken and profoundly grateful.
I am both grounded and in the process of becoming.

Grief has been my greatest teacher, revealing that I do not have to resist the discomfort of sorrow or cling desperately to joy. Instead, I can hold them both with an open heart, allowing them to shape me without defining me. In this space of Both AND, I find freedom—freedom to grieve without guilt, to love without fear, and to exist fully in the complexity of being human.

Ideas for Navigating Grief

If you are walking the path of grief, know that you are not alone. Here are some ways to soften the journey:

• Find a supportive community – Whether it’s a grief support group, a trusted friend, or an online forum, connection is vital.
• Create rituals of remembrance – Light a candle, write letters, celebrate birthdays and anniversaries in a way that honors your loved one.
• Express your grief – Speak their name, write about them, create art, allow your emotions to flow.
• Engage in healing practices – Yoga, meditation, and breathwork can help regulate emotions and provide moments of peace.
• Seek professional support – Therapy or grief counseling can offer guidance through the complexities of loss.
• Be patient with yourself – Grief has no timeline. Allow yourself to move through it at your own pace.

A Call to Open Your Heart

Grief is an invitation to live more fully—to love deeply, to be present, to hold both joy and sorrow with equal reverence. If you are navigating loss, I invite you to explore new ways of processing your grief. Join us at The Wellness Farm for a grief retreat, where we hold space for healing and connection. Or try a Yoga Nidra for Grief session, allowing your body and mind to surrender into rest and restoration.

You are not alone. Your grief is a testament to your love. And love, in all its forms, is always worth holding onto.

Photo Credit: Image by Erich Röthlisberger from Pixabay