What if grief isn’t something we have to carry forever—but something we get to move through with presence, power, and choice?
For me, that truth lives at my core.
Like many people, I’ve experienced deep loss. My husband passed away in 2020. I had to say goodbye to the life we built together and the family rhythms that shaped my day-to-day world. I went from being a wife and mother in a full house to living alone for the first time in my adult life.
Before that, I lost two of the people who had anchored me most of my life and whom I was very close to—my grandmother and my father. They both passed away on the same date, two years apart. Four years later, I lost my husband.
Three major losses. Three anchors gone. Each one reshaped me in ways I couldn’t have predicted.
And yet, I don’t feel broken by grief. I feel reshaped by it.
A Different Lens on Death
Death has never felt like an ending to me. I’ve always known—deep down—that the consciousness of who I am, who we are, is eternal. I believe I will return to Source, and I’ll choose my next adventure.
With “my people”—my grandmother, my dad, and my husband—we all had an agreement: whoever crossed over first would let the others know they made it. And they did not disappoint.
My grandmother came to me in the shower, of all places. I heard her say, “Oh Pip! I’m here! I’m really here! It’s so beautiful!”
When my dad passed, he came to me in the middle of the night and had a lot to say. He shared about the “classes” he was in—learning the things he “should have” learned while he was here in this life. He also had a message for my aunt: “I’m sorry I left you, Sis.” The next morning, I emailed her. She called me in tears because she had been asking him over and over, “Why did you leave me?” It was a powerful confirmation.
And when my husband came through, I was making the bed in our bedroom. The first thing he said was, “Nothing really matters!” as if he had a huge epiphany! He had placed so much importance on being a certain kind of person, on doing work to change the world. And from where he stood now, he saw it all differently.
He also gave me instructions on how to move through his loss. The first day, he told me to empty his nightstand. The next, his bathroom vanity. Then the dresser. And on Thursday—one week after he passed—he told me to release his clothes.
Now, this might sound wild, but there’s context: while he was alive, anytime we watched a show where a spouse died, he’d say, “When I die, I want you to get rid of my things immediately, because that is not where you’ll find me.”
Letting go of his belongings was gut-wrenching. I cried and wailed as I was moving through the motions of releasing. I smelled his clothes every day until I released them. But on the other side of that release, I felt him and his essence more clearly.
To this day, I believe I’ve talked to my husband almost every day since he passed.
One afternoon—about a year ago—I was putting laundry away and chatting to him like usual. I paused and thought, This is crazy. I can’t keep talking to my dead husband forever.
A few days later, one of his closest friends called me. She was taking a mediumship class and during practice, her classmate kept hearing the song “September.” She told her, “I know a September.” The classmate then described my husband—accurately—and relayed his message:
“Tell September I hear every word she says to me. She’s not crazy. And don’t stop talking to me.”
That moment changed me. Again.
I share these stories to offer insight into how I believe death really works. Your people are still with you. They hear you. They send signs. But you have to be in a place where you can receive them.
My grandmother sends me white feathers and pennies (we had an inside joke about them). My dad sends music or gnarly looking black feathers. My husband sends grey feathers and waves of presence I can feel.
But here’s what I know for sure:
It’s near impossible to hear them—or notice their signs—if you’re stuck looping in grief. That looping becomes an energetic barrier.
What If Grief Is a Choice?
I know that’s a bold statement. And it’s not about shaming anyone for hurting or taking time to process.
But I believe that after the initial wave of grief—the shock, the pain, the numbness—we have a choice: Do we keep looping the story and live there? Or do we let the emotion move through us and live forward?
When my husband died, I joined a few widow support groups. I thought it would feel good to connect with people who’ve had the same kind of loss. But what I found were people replaying the same story for over a decade, talking as if the loss had just happened. There was no movement. Just repetition.
That felt heavier than the grief itself. So I left.
Loss Changes You. But How It Changes You—That’s the Key.
I still miss my husband tremendously. I also found love again. It wasn’t and isn’t always easy. It definitely wasn’t instant. My heart didn’t burst open overnight. It’s been a slow process of learning how to love in a new way, from a new self.
Grief lives in layers, and comes in waves. I’ve had to grieve not just the loss of a person, but the loss of who I was, the role I played, the version of life we built together.
And still—I move forward. Not “on,” but forward.
A Memory That Still Holds Weight
Over 18 years ago, I had to put my dog down. I still haven’t gotten another. That grief was so pure, so painful, it taught me something about the depths of my heart. It reminded me: just because I process grief doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.
My capacity to move through grief is because I choose to experience life differently. I choose to meet endings as transitions. To feel them fully without becoming them.
An Ontological Reframe
Ontology is the study of being. And one of the most powerful questions we can ask in grief is:
Who am I being in the experience of loss?
Many of us inherited grief patterns. We were shown what grief “should” look like. And we modeled it without ever questioning whether it aligned with our own truth.
But what if you could choose differently? What if grief could be sacred, spacious, and clear—not suffocating?
You don’t have to perform grief the way it was modeled. You get to choose what aligns with your beliefs, your experience, and your relationship to life and death.
Would They Want Me to Honor Them Like This?
If you’re living in grief because it feels like a way to honor the person you lost, ask yourself this:
Would they want me to honor them like this?
Would they want you frozen in time? Would they want your joy on pause? Would you want that for the people you love when you leave this world?
I don’t. And my sons know that. When I go, I want them to feel it, honor it, and then live. With full hearts, completely free and joyful, and with deep gratitude for our shared time together.
This Is Your Invitation
If grief is in your body right now, I honor you. And I invite you to pause—not to escape it, but to redefine it.
Grief is real. But it doesn’t have to be a lifelong sentence. It can be a sacred portal that reshapes you, refines you, and reminds you what matters most.
Let it move through you. Let it teach you about love and life. Let it open your heart to even bigger capacities.
Because you were never meant to carry it forever. You were meant to alchemize it—and walk forward with more light and love than you had before.
Ready to explore what your healing journey can look like from here?
If you’re moving through grief or longing to reconnect with your sense of self, I invite you to schedule a discovery call with me. Whether you need support in your inner world, your next chapter, or simply connect with someone who’s walked the path too—I’m here.