In the summer of 2011, I was eighteen years old and enjoying the final months in my hometown of Brainerd, Minnesota. In the fall, I planned to attend the University of Minnesota, Duluth, where my brother attended college.

My to-be roommate at UMD and I had already planned out our dorm room with a matching color scheme. My first semester of school was scheduled.

I couldn’t wait to be closer to my brother. I couldn’t wait to join the university’s outdoor programs, where adventurous people were rock climbing, hiking, and swimming in the freezing-cold waters of Lake Superior.

But that didn’t happen.

I never ended up going to college. Well, that one anyway. Because a few weeks before my freshman year, I experienced a near-death climbing accident.

In my 2021 memoir, Start Here, I write painfully honestly about this experience in its entirety. For the purpose of this post, I will save those details— but I will share that I fell 70 feet from a tree while I was free climbing. I broke 6 ribs, dislocated my right hip, suffered internal bleeding, fractured mid-lower spine, fractured pelvis, fractured sacrum, broke my wrist, and had zero hope I would survive.

That was 15 years ago TODAY.

Dates always sneak up on me somehow.

I never see them coming, and then, all of a sudden- I’m sitting in my meditation pose about to practice my morning ritual and see on my phone: August 22.

Since that accident, my life has changed drastically.

Here are a few things that changed for me:

1. I cared less about what “society’ wanted for me // Attending college was what everyone did, and I was right there in the middle of the cattle herd signing papers, writing college essays, and believing I had chosen the best place for me. Falling out of the tree caused me to be painfully (in more ways than one) honest with myself. I wanted to attend UMD because it was where my brother went to college. I wanted to be involved in the outdoor sports, but they didn’t have the degree or area of study that I truly wanted. I was choosing a “second choice” because what I really wanted didn’t exist there. And, furthermore, what I truly wanted “society” would never accept. I wanted to pursue a writing degree. After the accident, I pulled out of UMD and was able to find a Creative Writing program at Minnesota State University, Mankato, that fit my desires much, much more authentically. I attended MSU instead, and I am very happy that I did.

2. I learned to honor pain // Every great life lesson or growth in my life has come through pain. Do I wish it were different? All the time. I don’t want to have to go through the pain to earn the reward of the lesson— but that’s where growth happens.

3. I slowed down and started noticing // I spent every day on my parents’ back porch overlooking the Mississippi River and watched the leaves change day by day. Lush green leaves changed slowly into golden yellow, auburn, and rusty brown. The leaves fell slowly, softly, patiently, and not a moment too soon or too late.

4. I thanked God for life // every time I breathed, I’d wince in pain from the multiple broken ribs, but I couldn’t help but feel so grateful that I was alive. I thanked God for a second chance at life.

5. I met a new growth edge // As a young woman, I was (and still am) very independent. I was stoked to live on my own and explore new territory. Since the accident, I had to stay home, sleep in my parents’ living room because I couldn’t go upstairs or downstairs, and needed help doing everything from eating to taking meds to bathing. I hated losing my independence. My mother was very kind and supportive and took off several months from work to help me, but I struggled to allow her to help me at times because I wanted to be independent. Allowing others to help me when I need the help is a continual growth edge for me, and one I’m still working on today.

Fifteen years have gone by since the accident, and I can say I’ve had plenty of opportunities to re-learn the above 5 life lessons.

I thought I could learn the lesson once and then move on like passing a level on a video game, but that’s not how life works. I don’t like re-learning life lessons, because they come with pain.

Looking back on my life, however, I can honestly say I am grateful for every experience that brought pain— because it helped me grow, it helped me change, it made me the woman I am today.

Below is a prompt for you to explore elements I’ve processed above for yourself. In this post, we’re talking about re-learning life lessons. If you’d like, you can share your prompt in the comments of this post, you can message me your prompt response, or you can write it in a notebook for yourself.

PROMPT: What is a lesson life keeps asking you to learn again?

Happy writing, y’all!

Much love,

Em

They were different groups, but the power of human connection, vulnerability, and joining others in their grief was equally as powerful.

The losses were diverse: a couple attended mourning the loss of their teenage daughter who was hit by a car while riding her bike, a single mother mourned the loss of her four-year-old son, a woman mourned the loss of her husband of 27 years, another woman mourned the recent death of her husband by suicide, and another woman was mourning the loss of her parents.

Nobody wants to find themselves in a place in life where they need to find a grief support group.

And that’s the very thing that makes this bond like no other.

Week after week, participants share their fears about grief: it will always feel this way, I am not grieving right, is there something wrong with me?

And week after week, participants discovered they are not alone in their fears, pain, or loneliness.

The first grief support group I participated in was 12 weeks long. Is it weird to say that I didn’t want it to end? Don’t get me wrong- I never wanted to go. It was held on Sunday evenings, and you best believe I almost didn’t go to every single one.

But I knew I’d feel lighter afterward.

Every night, we’d part ways with the Florida sun setting in the sky like a promise. I’d get into my car and drive home, not knowing the way through this wilderness of grief, but knowing that I was not alone. It helped a lot.

Fast forward a year and some change, and I’m co-facilitating a 6-week grief group at another location.

I observed the participants facing the same challenges I was facing—they didn’t want to be there either. Grief group on a Friday night in the summer? Good graces.

Some of the participants only attended a few times, sharing that they wanted to hide from their grief. It took everything inside them to attend once.

Others were able to commit to the 6 weeks and became like family by the end.

I watched as the magic unfolded once again for a completely new group, with completely different griefs.

I’m working today as a grief therapist helping individuals and couples navigate through the messiness of grief. As the saying goes, I would not wish this pain on my worst enemy. But it is the greatest honor of this life to walk alongside grievers to help them discover parts of themselves they didn’t even know existed.

Just as Shakira sang while shaking her tail feathers at the 2026 FIFA World Cup:

You’ve been this brave, all along.

What broke you once made you strong.

If you’re new to Grief & Gratitude, you may be wondering how Grief and Gratitude go together. Nobody wants to go through hard things, especially losses that completely shatter our entire lives, rendering a once-plotted-out future unrecognizable. But, they happen. As you know. They happen slowly. They happen suddenly. They happen no matter how desperately we wish them not to— and yet, the depth of grief to which we experience the pain of the loss is the exact measure of love we got to experience in this life.

And it’s not over yet.

Your pain can become your power.

Keep going.

Much love,

Em

What does guilt look like in grief? It’s a complex, self-conscious emotion that arises when you believe that you failed to protect your loved one from the event that ended their life on earth.

Examples could include:

“If I had called him back that morning, maybe he would’ve left 5 minutes later and not gotten in that car accident.”

“I should have forced her to see a doctor.”

“I should have made him quit smoking.”

“I should have been a better mother or father.”

“I should have been more available.”

“I should have been a better friend.”

“If I hadn’t done x,y,z... maybe they’d still be here.”

Those are all guilt thoughts produced by a false idea that you had more control over somebody else’s life than you do.

The reality is — if you knew the event was going to happen, you would’ve done everything you could to stop it before it happened.

When guilt shows up, it’s sickeningly isolating and torturous. And it’s not something that is shared with anybody else; guilt is what lies within your mind and body. That’s why it’s necessary to do the work to face it, put it on trial, and find the truth so that you can be released from the grips of guilt.

After my brother died by suicide, I thought, “If I had only called him that morning,” and “I shouldn’t have gone out of town that week prior,” and “I was one of the only people he trusted, if anyone could’ve saved him, it would be me— and I failed.”

But the reality is—his battle was his, not mine.

I loved my brother with every ounce of my being. We were best friends, and I am forever grateful for our relationship, but his death was not caused by anything that I did or did not do. His death was caused by his illness.

It destroyed me, and grief will always live within my heart for the loss of him.

But I did not cause it, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. There was nothing I could do to change the course of events. This is not to say I didn’t support him or wasn’t present with him—he knew how much I loved him. He felt safe with me. We had a special bond, and I know he would never want to hurt me.

His hurts were his own hurts, and as desperately as I wished that I could heal them, I couldn’t.

If you’re dealing with guilt after the loss of a loved one, you’re not alone, and there are things that you can do.

First, get curious about the guilt. Where is it coming from? Is there any truth to it? Is there an element of “time travel” involved, as if you should’ve been able to see the future before it happened and change the course of events?

Second, ask yourself if others would find you guilty. Would your friends say you’re guilty for the death of your loved one? Would your spouse say that you’re guilty for the death of your loved one? Would your children say you’re guilty?

Third, would your lost loved one blame you? What would he or she to you about the guilt you’re carrying related to their death?

Widening your perspective on where the guilt is coming from can help you see it for what it truly is. Many times, as we get curious about guilt related to grief, it will slowly dissipate over time. Observe it from all angles, and then, after you’ve gathered your data, I hope you’re able to release (even just a little) guilt from your process of grief with self-compassion.

Working through this releasing process can be extremely challenging, so discussing it with a trusted friend or therapist is highly recommended.

If you have any questions or want to discuss grief and guilt further, send me a message!

Much love,

Em

Prompt:

Write about the moments you replay, the things you wish you had done differently, or the words you wish you had said. Then ask yourself: Am I holding myself responsible for something that was never fully within my control? What would you say to a dear friend carrying this same guilt? Can you offer even a fraction of that same grace to yourself?

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I listened to the seven participants in the room rattle off their physical symptoms: numbness, back pain, stomach pain, headaches, fatigue, feeling like they cannot go on another minute…

For me, and one they didn’t share- it’s jaw pain.

I wake up with a clenched jaw, as if my teeth were clamped together by a hydraulic press. I feel pain in my jaw all day and night. I am sure this cannot be good for my teeth; I fear they might crack apart like the dry desert earth, leaving long lines exposing tender nerves.

My hands are curled into fists, wrapped into one another.

My hips are tight.

My body is exhausted.

My mind is tired.

My heart hurts.

This is grief.

June 22, 2026 is the five-year anniversary of my brother’s death by suicide.

On June 12 of this year, I started co-facilitating my first grief group as part of my clinical internship for my MSW program. I find it interesting how many dates in life seem to coincide— of course, I’d be co-facilitating my first grief group during my hardest month. June is not only hard because of his death date, but it’s also his birth date.

He was born on June 6, 1990.

The time between each year, his birth to his death, I feel like I am clenching everything in my life, watching the most intense part of an action film. My body holds tight like please, please, please, please make it out of there in time. Make it out of that burning building, or away from that killer, or off that road before that semi turns sideways on black ice. Please, make it out of there alive.

But I’ve already seen the film four times.

I know it doesn’t end the way I so desperately wish it would.

That doesn’t change how my body reacts, however, just like watching the movie Taken and screaming inside for those girls to run, run, run, run, RUN!

I already know they get caught. I already know they get taken. But my body hopes, every time, that the script, along with the title, will somehow change.

As I enter my fifth year without my brother, I pause for deep, honest, and painful reflection. I attended a yin yoga class because I knew I couldn’t do anything more than lie on the mat with blankets and bolsters. I did my best to relax my body, unclench my jaw, release the tension in my hands and hips, and melt into the mat.

The tension was still there, like wishing a terminal cancer away.

I could let it go for a moment, but it’d always be there. It’s real, it’s unfair, and it’s never going away. I am tired of carrying this grief that will expand with each year that passes. My life, somehow, continues on— and his stays frozen in 2021. I lie on my yoga mat and think about how damn proud I am of myself for somehow carrying on. It’s like I’ve become this woman I never thought I could be. She’s taken far more hits than I thought she could survive.

Maybe healing isn't the absence of tension. Maybe it's learning that even with clenched jaws, aching hips, exhausted hearts, and hands that still curl into fists, we continue to love, to show up, and to live.

Five years later, my body still remembers what my mind wishes it could forget. It still braces for a different ending. But this year, standing in front of that whiteboard, listening to others describe the ways grief has made a home in their bodies, I realized something: mine is not a body that has failed me. It is a body that has survived the unimaginable. Every ache is evidence of love that had nowhere else to go. And while I may never fully unclench, I am slowly learning to thank this body for carrying me through a story I never wanted to live—and for somehow, impossibly, carrying me forward anyway.

Thank you for reading and supporting.

Much love,

Em

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Prompt:
Where does grief live in your body? If your body could speak, what would it say about the losses it has carried?

My cousin called with some great news — she was attending a grief retreat and offered for me to attend with her.

I set the intention and the Universe said, Ok, here you go! Good luck, kid.

I felt good about applying — they have a pretty serious application process because tending to grief is extraordinarily vulnerable work. The space and the people in it make or break a ritualistic retreat.

Honestly, I had no idea what to expect.

Would we be learning about grief and how to better process it? Would we be sharing our grief? Would we be wailing and crying and pounding our chests? Would we sit in silence with candles lit?

Day 1, we arrived in Salt Lake City, Utah, where two grief tenders had traveled to meet our group from the Sacred Valley in Peru. I was grateful that two deeply spiritual individuals living in the Sacred Valley would travel to Utah to be with us in our grief. Those two met with another two grief tenders in Salt Lake City to make four leaders for our grief retreat.

They opened the space with tribal drumming.

I immediately felt at home.

Over the next 24 hours, we built our sacred space by contributing to an ancestor altar and connecting with other grievers. We wrote prompts and then found someone whose grief we knew nothing about and shared our writings with them. Sharing your deepest pains with a stranger and watching them tear up as you share your heart has to be one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.

On the third day, we prepared for the grief ceremony.

We primed the grief shrine with elements from our ancestors supporting us in our grieving and elements representing our lost loved ones. The spiritual aroma was thick as incense smoke.

This is how it worked— there were two rows of cushions. The first row was for the griever. The second row was for the griever’s “companion.” This could be someone the griever has asked to come forward and accompany them, or it could be someone random. Part of me felt like I should ask someone, so I didn’t end up with a random.

But then again, everyone at a grief retreat is a random. Besides my cousin who I had the great honor of traveling to the grief retreat with, all others were complete strangers.

I chose to leave it up to fate.

And I’m elated that I did.

I was asked to accompany one individual, and one individual felt called to accompany me.

They were both individuals who had expressed in our group shares that they were shy and weren’t sure if they would “do grieving right.”

They both weren’t sure if they belonged here.

They were timid.

The first woman, with brown eyes and a heaviness to her spirit, asked me moments before going to the grief shrine to accompany her. I nodded, smiled, and followed her.

I joined the drum line after that and played some percussion instruments. And then, it was my time.

I went up to the grief shrine and left it up to chance who would accompany me.

A man came forward who also felt similarly to the woman— would he do this right? Did he belong here?

I felt so grateful that both of those individuals found safety in going up with me. Whether they were grieving or companioning, they belonged next to me.

My grief experience was like dropping back into that first experience of hearing of my brother’s death. It will be five years this June, and I still feel like it was yesterday. I told one of my prompt partners at the retreat that I knew there was one thing life could take from me that would absolutely destroy me, and I was sure I would also die from grief and sadness if that thing happened. That thing was losing my brother.

He was not only my blood brother, but my soul brother as well.

I think there’s also something to be said about the upset of the linear timeline of loss. There is a natural progression to loss and death, grandparents go before parents, and parents go before their children. Siblings have each other for life to go through it all together. When there’s an upset in that progression, a child dying before a parent or a sibling suddenly dying, it throws your entire life off its axis and you have to find a new way to balance your emotions and the life you have left. A life you never imagined you’d have to live without that person.

So, as I was up there, at the grief shrine, I curled into myself with great grief once again. I held my face and dug into the pillow as if I was trying to dig into the earth. It was like bringing my body back to that place— a place I was afraid I’d get stuck in if I dared to return. I dared to go there, and I can tell you that I did not get stuck. I let the waves of grief come once again, welcoming them like a warm healing nectar washing over my heart. They came, they washed over me, and I was able to return to a place of peace, calm, and gratitude for the souls alongside me during this process.

As with many things in life, when we dare to do something courageous, there is often great reward in the end.

I spent the weekend with very little attention to my phone and did not bring it into the sacred space with me, so I do not have photos of this experience. The leaders requested we not take photos, of course. That felt very good to me, yet I wanted to share something with my readers as well.

One morning, I went outside and took photos of all the little beautiful things I could notice. After the retreat, I felt my mind was clearer, and I noticed beautiful things more, like the way a vine curls around a sign or the way flower bulbs close one day and open slowly the next. I captured a few of those moments and will share them below.

Thank you for reading and for sharing in my grief.

If you’d like information about this specific retreat and the individuals who led it, message me (click below), and I will share it with you.

Prompt for you!

What is one courageous choice you’ve made that transformed your life? Describe what you feared would happen—and what actually happened instead. What reward, lesson, or unexpected gift was waiting for you on the other side of your fear?

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In the spring of 2014, a speaker was coming to our church and hosting a four-day conference. It was much-awaited. People in my church were taking days off of work and putting their children in daycare. They were going to be fully present for this four-day conference with the Christian leader. I had never heard of the man before, but my friends at church said I must attend. So, I took work off as well.

The days were long, from early morning to late evening. Some days would go from 8 AM to 10 PM. People were there literally all day.

It was like they couldn’t get enough of this experience, but I had a different experience. While leaders in the church were getting “drunk in the spirit,” I struggled to find the desire to be there. I wanted to go home and read a book. I felt like there must be something wrong with me. I’m not into this whole God-thing enough. I’m not getting it. I’m on the outside looking in.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be one of them or have the freedom to say I wasn’t feeling it.

Needless to say, I felt utterly alone and defective. I could vibe with certain parts of the on-fire Christian community, but the four-day conference with this “prophetic” man traveling around and getting “drunk in the spirit” was not vibing with me.

Twelve years later, I am attending a different type of conference— but, you know, my experience with the flaming Christian community is coming up for me.

This time, I am attending a grief retreat.

It is not “Christian” per se. It is not any “religion.”

It is a bunch of people coming together to practice traditions and rituals around grief that are not commonly practiced in America.

During the first introductory call, I felt triggered.

A few individuals entered the video chat with phrases like “hello, dear souls” or “greetings, spiritual beings,” and I thought, here we go again.

I had an urge to be like, “ Stop the crap - we are all here because we’ve been rigorously gutted by some loss in our lives.”

Oftentimes, the flowery language comes across as disingenuous to me.

Once I got over that, I looked around the call and noticed people of all ages coming to this retreat. I respected that. Nobody wants to attend a grief retreat. Let’s be honest. GRIEF WORK is not fun work. It is, however, powerful.

As I prepare for this retreat, I not only have the fears around being extremely uncomfortable like I was at the Christian conference, but I have new fears of the floodgates of my grief opening.

I have a fear that I will attend this grief retreat and the exploration of grief around losing my brother in 2021 will land me face-down back on the floor, which is directly where I went when I first heard the news.

I actually thought I would die.

I thought there was no way a human could survive this traumatic, sudden loss.

I resented being so young.

He was 31, I was 28. I’d have to live with this pain for the rest of my life. I truly believed it would kill me, too.

Somehow, I got up off that floor.

Somehow, I kept going.

I don’t know how.

I’m just afraid that if I think of it all, I won’t be able to get back up again.

But I already know that I can.

I’ve already proven to myself that the worst, most unimaginable pain can happen to me, and I will, somehow, survive.

Thank you for following my grief journey. It was a major goal of mine for 2026 to attend a grief retreat, and now I am doing so. I will be attending one in Salt Lake City under the teachings of Francis Weller, whose work I greatly respect.

Weller’s book The Wild Edge of Sorrow was included in my Must Reads in Early Grief article on Substack. Reading The Wild Edge of Sorrow gave me permission to allow my grief to be exactly as it was. Not forcing it to be anything it was or was not. It was also validating, because he put on display how grief illiterate we are in America. That felt affirming to me.

I wanted to share my pre-grief retreat fears with my readers because it’s completely normal to have past emotions and memories bubble up from years ago. It’s likely, however, that this thing will go very differently from anything I am imagining. And I’m signed up for the entire ride.

I believe you do not have to be fearless to walk toward your grief. You just have to be willing. Years ago, I collapsed onto the floor believing my life had ended alongside my brother’s.

And yet, somehow, I survived what I was certain would destroy me.

Maybe that is what this retreat is really about—not “healing” in the polished, performative sense, but learning that grief can open its floodgates and I can still remain standing afterward.

I do not know exactly what waits for me in Salt Lake City. I only know that I am no longer running from the depth of my sorrow. I am turning toward it, with trembling hands, an open heart, and the quiet understanding that surviving once means I can survive again.

That is the full experience of this life, and I am grateful to have the opportunity to feel all of it.

Prompt: Have you been afraid to open the door to your grief? What do you fear might happen if you let yourself fully feel it? And how might your life change if you discovered that you are capable of surviving even your deepest pain?

What most people think is just a “plane ride” to him was skydiving. It was treacherous— but for his best friend, he did it. And he had the time of his life with those guys.

When I reflect back on my experience growing up with my brother, two and a half years older than me, I notice how many times he had to overcome his severe anxiety in silence. TJ was a stud. Of course, he wouldn’t want to share with anyone how terrified he was of routine activities where others weren’t even fazed.

Things like flying or giving a speech in front of a classroom— as an outgoing, hilarious guy, one would never imagine he fought such intense internal battles.

I was a little different.

Most would describe me as oblivious, in a dream world, or “somewhere else.” Later, I’d discover this is also called ADHD, with a common habit of disassociating.

My brother’s anxiety, mixed with my adrenaline-seeking dopamine-deficient brain, was just the match for one another. We became best friends.

It was every little sister’s dream.

TJ included me in everything.

He told his friends who didn’t want me around that they could, kindly, “Leave the house if they have a problem with it.”

TJ was present for literally every milestone of my life, starting from my birth. He was there.

And I never imagined, being 2.5 yrs younger, that I’d ever cross a milestone without him waiting for me at the finish line.

My brother being there was as certain as the sky is blue or the sun is bright.

Until it all went dark.

Until he battled so severely with his mental health that he couldn’t function.

It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before, and it was happening to my favorite human of all time. How could this be?

My father likes to tell the story of when I fell 70 feet out of a pine tree in Northern Minnesota. It was a tragic experience, as I’m sure you can imagine. I shattered everything in my body and had to be hauled 2 miles out of the dense forest, loaded into an ambulance, and then airlifted to a trauma center.

TJ was visiting some friends in college when he heard the news; he drove 85 mph the entire way to the trauma center. He was the first one there.

Once again, I trusted I’d never have to cross another major milestone without him.

I imagined him at my wedding (never was I even close to thinking of marriage), but I would dream of it— I’d make him be on my side of the aisle. I asked him if he’d wear a dress for the helluvit. He said, “I’d rock the shit out of a bridesmaid dress.”

He never got to play that part, however.

Not because I never got married (I didn’t) but because he was no longer here.

On May 3, 2026, I crossed my first major milestone without him at the finish line.

I completed my master’s in social work at Florida State University.

It was like knowing your person is supposed to be there, and yet, somehow, they aren’t. What happened? Why did this happen? What did I do to deserve this?

There are moments in grief where the world keeps moving so offensively normal that it almost makes you angry. People congratulate you. They smile for photos. They put that awkward hood on you. Meanwhile, your brain is screaming, My brother is supposed to be here.

He was supposed to shout my name embarrassingly loud at the ceremony. He was supposed to take sneaky photos of me spacing out and post them to IG, which we’d laugh about later. He was supposed to tell everyone within a ten-mile radius that his little sister got her master’s degree.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of grief—not just missing the person, but mourning the future versions of them that never arrived.

I used to think grief was learning how to let go.

Now, I think it’s learning how to carry someone.

Because somehow, even without him standing at the finish line, TJ was woven into every step it took to get there.

In the way I notice silent battles.
In the way I listen to others.
In the way I survived.
In the way I keep going.

My brother’s experience and the vulnerability he showed me was, and still is, sacred. I am honored to have been a safe person for him.

One of the gifts my mother gave me for graduation was his old wellness tracking journal. I held it close to my heart and smiled before opening it up to see he had written about me.

“Long chat with Em today about life and relationships.”

“Talked with Em.”

How I would give anything to have one more FaceTime, or visit. Even with his terror of flying, I have to say, I think he’d made it to Florida to celebrate his little sister’s graduation.

His support, in his physical absence, is still present.

And although I crossed this milestone without hearing his voice, I know this:

No accomplishment in my life will ever exist untouched by him.

Not one.

Thank you to ALL MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS who came out to support me during this tender moment. My oldest sister, Mandi, and her husband, Rob, attended from Oklahoma. My cousin Lydia and her husband Justin attended from Idaho. And my parents, Gregg and Jayne, attended from Minnesota. My fellow cohort graduates— we did it!! And my lifeguard friends, thank you all for coming out and celebrating. We were laughing for days.

I love you guys!

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For the past two years, I worked full-time (10-hour days as a beach lifeguard), attended night classes 3-4 nights a week, and completed a part-time internship where I committed 20 hours a week to working with the most severe mental illness cases in the county. I snuck in teaching a yoga class here and there where I could.

Even just typing all of that makes me want to take a nap.

On May 3, 2026, I will finally walk in graduation.

For the entirety of my master’s program, I have worked as a beach lifeguard. To be honest, it is every bit as cool as you think it would be.

We go for runs on the sugar-sand beaches of Panama City Beach and swim out to the end of the pier and back in the Gulf’s crystal waters.

We spend all day staring at the ocean’s natural ecosystem. It’s not uncommon to see dolphins arching out of the water in pods, little ones swimming safely between the adults. We watch manatees cruise slowly, like cows grazing in an open field.

We see all kinds of birds, fish, and, yes, every once in a while, sharks.

Working as a beach lifeguard is the most chill job you could have — until it’s not.

Once a water call or medical call is dispatched, it’s all lights, sirens, and fast-paced.

But I liked that part too.

It was a little adrenaline rush, and you’re going to help someone who is in need.

So, what part didn’t I like?

That came out in therapy— in class.

In the social work program, we do a lot of therapy. One person is the clinician, and the other is the client. We used to only use made-up scenarios, but as we grew closer as a cohort, most of us started using actual situations from our lives.

The week after I left my job as a beach lifeguard, I had therapy practice with one of my classmates - and you know - I used my actual life situation.

We sat in chairs opposite one another in the front of the classroom, everyone else with paper and pens ready to critique our work.

After introductions, my classmate asked, “So, what brings you in today?”

I shifted into character way too easily, perhaps because that character was, well, me.

“I think I’m experiencing some grief about leaving the job that I really loved, but some of it I really didn’t love as well.”

She nodded, listening intently, and said, “That’s completely understandable. Sounds like you’re having some mixed feelings about leaving this job. Tell me more about that.”

“Well,” I said, “I worked as a beach lifeguard for four years and really loved it, but there was also a lot of unnecessary drama that took place. I thought it was the best job on earth, but the drama made it unbearable at times.”

During our 10-minute practice session, I was able to articulate that I was experiencing symptoms of grief because of how important this job has been to me. I started working as a beach lifeguard shortly after my brother died by suicide. I desperately needed a safe space to heal. And to run. And to swim.

During my time as a beach lifeguard, I completed hundreds of assists and about 40 to 50 rescues, including one very serious, life-threatening rescue.

The job is chill, but tough as well. You have to withstand long, hot days in the Florida sun and be prepared to respond at any moment.

Over the past four years, I have been able to “heal.”

Although experiencing a traumatic loss like that is not something a person ever “heals” from. There will never be a day I do not miss him or ache for his presence in my life.

The grief of losing him was sudden, gut-wrenching, and will forever impact my life.

The grief I am experiencing with moving on from lifeguarding is different, but it’s still grief. I feel grief over how much better the job could have been without certain individuals causing unnecessary drama and bullying other lifeguards. I feel grief that I won’t be able to swim out to the end of the pier and back every day, or live in a swimsuit (the greatest perk of all).

I feel grief because I’m leaving some amazing, hard-working, inspiring lifeguards. Those individuals have become like family to me over the years.

I am looking forward to starting my new career in social work. I am grateful for the opportunity in front of me. I know it’s time. I am ready.

And yet, it’s completely normal to experience grief when we go through big changes in life.

Thank you for all who continue to support me in this journey!

You are stars keeping me on path.

Much love,

Em

PROMPT: Where in your life can you recognize grief—maybe in moving on from a job, a relationship, or even a version of yourself? What feels heavy about it, and what feels hopeful?

“Keep going.”

When I called him from my college dorm room, crying because everyone at college only cared about getting drunk, and I felt it was useless, he said, “keep going.”

When I called him after my first major heartbreak, he said, “keep going.”

And even now, though he is no longer with me in person, I can hear him telling me to “keep going.”

In May, I will complete my final semester in my master’s in social work program. This semester has felt like a false summit— a term used in mountain climbing where you think you see the summit, but it isn’t, it’s a plateau, and you’ve got a lot of this thing left to hike.

April has been hard.

Hella hard.

Even though I only had one month left, I legitimately questioned whether I’d have to drop out of this program and wouldn’t cross the finish line—at mile 24 of a 26.2-mile marathon.

Of course, it’s never just one thing. Pursuing my master’s program is stressful, yes, but there’s more. Oh, there’s more!

I got a concussion at work. My personal life was stressful and worrisome. My newly adopted dog had bad separation anxiety, and my neighbors were commenting on it. I had constant anxiety. I not only feared for my relationships, but also my mind— I already have a TBI. I’ve already sustained major head trauma. And now, I sustained a mild concussion. I do not want any more trauma relating to my brain. I’m considering wearing a helmet at all times of the day and night.

When life gets overwhelming, I think of my brother. It sickens me with grief that he passed away in the way in which he did. It sickens me that his story didn’t end differently. It sickens me that his story ended before mine.

It all crashes down on me like a massive glass wall of a wave, which is what gave me the concussion.

Imagine Chuck Norris gripping a thick sheet of plexiglass and then, in a grand-slam of a slap, he whacks you across the head with it— that’s what it feels like to get bitch slapped by a wave.

Perhaps it’s a rite of passage for surfers? I’m not sure. But I got it. I was there. And I was also way out of it for weeks following. I fell behind in school. I became extra emotional.

I finally went to the doctor and got help.

I explained to her everything going on, and, with wide eyes, she commented, “It sounds like life is a lot right now on top of a mild concussion.”

Yes, overwhelmingly so.

I took the next week to rest, which, thankfully, coincided with my Spring Break from school. I did my best to rest, but still experienced high levels of anxiety.

Returning to work and school and navigating my dog’s separation anxiety— I can say it has all improved. I was reminded of my brother’s simple words— keep going.

I set time increments for homework and projects. I took breaks. I started going to therapy. I enrolled my dog in training classes and started experimenting with options to reduce his anxiety when I leave. I started bringing him to daycare during the day so he gets enough stimulation. I set boundaries for myself in the evening— that’s my time. I read a book or do something non-school or work-related.

When we’re in the stress and overwhelm of it all, it truly feels like it will all come crashing down. But if we just take a few moments to pause, breathe, and practice regular self-care, we can persevere.

I also think there’s something to be said about carrying on not only for yourself, but for the ones you love.

For all of them, I keep going.

Nancy was my daycare lady.

My brother and I would get into my dad’s work truck, he’d ask us which cassette tape we wanted to listen to—usually Janet Jackson—and take us to Nancy’s house.

My brother played sports with the other boys; I lay on the ground with Laker.

Nancy had a voice like bamboo, soft and durable. I knew very little about her life outside of the fact that she made bomb grilled cheese sandwiches, watched daytime soap operas, and had a husband, but he did something bad, and he’d be moving out soon.

Since Nancy and Laker, I’ve always dreamed of having my own big dog.

I watched movies like Aladdin and so wished I could have a pet like Princess Jasmine’s protective tiger named Raja.

Similar to Nancy and Laker and Princess Jasmine and Raja, these beautiful women had loyal, cuddly big animal protectors.

I wanted to be just like them.

I wanted my own loyal Laker or Raja.

As I got older and no longer attended daycare— but school— my family had dogs, one of which we unfortunately had to put down due to aggression. Her name was Journey. I’d come home after school and climb into her huge outdoor kennel and sit with her in there. We’d just chill. That was right where I wanted to be.

Dogs don’t communicate like humans, however, and after a few incidents, my family decided to put her down. That was my first true experience with loss.

I didn’t understand how a dog that was so loving could also be so aggressive.

The next dog we named Nike— and I bought her for $10 at a garage sale.

Dad, bless his heart, was skeptical, but said, “Bring her home.”

Nike turned out to be one of his best hunting dogs, ever.

She was a black lab, springer mix. Her fur was wavy and smooth, her brown eyes soft and kind. She trained hard, worked hard, and loved even harder. Nike and I grew up together. My favorite place to be with her was also on the floor. I’d lie cuddled up next to her, and she’d just relish in the love.

Nike’s earthly life ended in a natural cycle. She lived a long, healthy life.

I remember the call from my mother. I was now in college, and she told me that Nike had gone to heaven. The grief sank down in me— but not like Journey. The loss of Journey was confusing, sudden, and dismantled my understanding of a protector. The loss of Nike was slow and expected, and yet something we’re never prepared for.

The dogs of my childhood— Laker, Journey, and Nike— were some of the best companions a little girl could ask for. My understanding of love was shaped, in some ways, by the unconditional love of dogs— their slobbery mouths and bouncy bodies always stoked to see me, even if I’d only been gone for five minutes. It didn’t matter what happened that day, whether I was happy with myself or feeling insecure or dissatisfied with myself— a dog’s love remained unchanged.

In my twenties, I moved away from home. I graduated from high school, then college, and traveled to several countries doing humanitarian and mission work. I loved culture, how people expressed themselves, and different languages.

But I always wanted a four-legged companion.

The first dog I adopted was not a big Laker or Raja, but man, was she a protector. Her name was Goldie, and she was a pitbull. Fifty pounds of pure muscle.

Goldie was a “foster fail.”

Her original foster family was military, and they were moving— they could not take Goldie with them. It was either me or back to the pound. I said I’d take her for a little while… turned into weeks, and then months. Eventually, the foster mom called and said, “Are you adopting Goldie?”

I said yes.

Goldie, like Journey, had the biggest heart— and she became aggressive. Managing her aggression was extremely anxiety-producing for me. More on that story in my post, When Love Means Letting Go.

I never had to put a dog down myself, but after an awfully traumatic incident, I felt I had no choice. It ripped the guts out of me to say goodbye to my first dog companion. After I had experienced so many other significant losses in my life, including the loss of my brother, I sometimes feel like I can’t handle one more loss. I don’t know what that means— that I can’t handle it— but it’s like a massive wave coming toward me, and I know I can’t beat this thing— the water is more powerful. The wave is bigger. I can’t fight it. I have to flow with it.

So, I sank into the puddles of grief with the loss of Goldie once more.

I thought maybe I shouldn’t adopt again, because loss is so painful. And I’m in my graduate program (one month left!), working full-time, about to start another internship for social work, and managing the anxiety of my partner being deployed.

But I knew dogs could also help my anxiety.

I started volunteering at the animal shelter, taking dogs on running dates through the park. The animal shelter is an extremely stressful environment. Dogs are barking constantly. I can’t imagine any of them truly getting rest day or night.

It became a weekly thing for me. Even though the animal shelter is 30 minutes away from my house, I didn’t mind taking the entire morning to pick up a dog, bring them to the park and run, come back, and then drive home. This seemed to be helping not only my anxiety, but also the stress of losing Goldie and the trauma of working with a highly reactive dog.

The first time a dog I took out interacted with another dog, my heart raced. My body sweated. I breathed quickly. I worked through it.

After five weeks of taking different dogs out, it happened.

Exactly what you think would happen.

I found the dog I couldn’t give back.

His name was Grizzly.

Grizzly is 1.5 years old (they think), black and tan, and an Anatolian Shepherd mix.

Since he is from the shelter, they don’t know much about his history.

During our doggie running date, he was playful but quiet. It was like he didn’t want to cause too much of a ruckus in case I chose differently. Which, I later found out, happened to him. A family with children adopted him and didn’t like that he was so big that he would knock the children down— so instead of working with him— they brought him back and dumped him at the pound.

Still, he looked up at every person walking by with big hopeful eyes. Will you take me home? Will you love me? I promise I’ll be a good boy.

Driving back to the shelter after our running date, I felt it in my gut. But, I told myself I can’t adopt a dog right now— I have too much going on. Too much stress.

I settled on the idea of fostering him.

When I returned and asked the shelter about fostering— they said they’ve had bad experiences with people fostering and just bringing the dogs back— so they’d prefer to either have him back or I can adopt him right now and take him home.

I looked down at Grizzly.

His floppy ears perked up. Tail began to wag.

I couldn’t say no.

I took him home.

I’ve had Grizzly for one month now, and it has not been an easy transition.

Grizzly is terrified I am going to abandon him, so we’re working on crate training and separation anxiety.

Grizzly doesn’t have any formal training, so we are going to training together.

I feel my heart opening up once again as an innocent, sweet dog paws at me and cuddles into my side at night.

Love doesn’t just come with all the positive things, it comes with the challenging and the complex. It comes with the frustration and stress. But love, too, is the lifeblood of this great existence. It is love keeping me grounded to complete my program, so I can work with trauma victims and support those battling with mental health issues. It is love holding me close while I worry about what’s happening overseas. It is love keeping me committed to working with Grizzly on reactions and situations that he never asked to be in.

It is love that keeps life worth living.

When I think of being a pet owner, there is SO MUCH grief & gratitude. Those sweet souls are with us forever— even when their earthly life ends. They are always with us.

If you’d like to share in the comments, I’d love to see a photo of your dog and how you met him or her. Or if not a dog that you own— one that has impacted your life in some way.

Much love,

Em

He said, “We’re getting in it today.”

The waves were massive (to me), peaking at 5-6 feet with a series of washing-machine drops. I watched the lifeguards in front of me deploy their tubes and rescue cans and dive under the waves, navigating out past the break. A few of them were shot back like the Chance card or “Go Back Three Spaces” in Monopoly. You don’t know where you’re gonna land or what your new fate will be.

It’s impossible to watch others because there are angry, foaming-at-the-mouth waves between you and your teammates— all you get is a glimpse of a red rescue tube every once in a while if you’re lucky.

I was good.

Thought I was good.

I ducked under the white caps.

Ducked under again.

And again.

Holy shit— again?

And again.

I started getting tired.

Duck-dived again.

More tired.

I started getting nervous.

Duck-dived again.

Seemed to not be moving.

Started getting more nervous.

Wave coming.

Wave coming.

WAVE COMING.

It gave me a face-full, and I was washed backwards.

Go Back Three Spaces.

Panic.

I turned toward shore and started swimming as fast as I could.

Breathing heavily.

Panicking.

Panicking x2.

Finally, I made it to shore and crawled out, breathless and embarrassed.

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Historically, I hated the day.

If you were in a relationship, you felt pressure to do something.

And if you weren’t in a relationship, well, you’re missing out and most likely will be alone and sad forever while the rest of the world is in blissful, effortless love. Too damn bad.

In recent years, I’ve grown curious about how to reclaim certain holidays or days that brought mixed emotions, confusion, or sadness.

Two of those dates are my brother’s birth and death dates. They’re both in June, and it’s like a double sucker punch. In the past two years, I’ve learned how to reclaim those dates. I took myself out for a long jet-ski ride— something we enjoyed doing together. I took a long walk in the woods and listened to music we both enjoyed. I wrote him a letter. I ordered his favorite foods. I dedicated my meditation that morning and evening to his spirit. I lit a candle.

After practicing all of those new rituals, I started to look forward to that previously treacherous first part of June. That part of the month was always about him— and it still is—I get to honor him and our special sibling friendship.

Valentine’s Day is a very different type of date to reclaim.

How would I reclaim a holiday that I hated?

Really, in the same way that I reclaimed my brother’s birth and death dates.

The first thing I did was research why Valentine’s Day even exists.

I discovered that February is celebrated as the month of romance because it contains roots in both Christian and Roman traditions. There are three different saints named Valentine or Valentinus who were killed (there’s always gotta be so much blood, death, and martydom in these traditions) in the third century A.D.

One of the legends says that when Emperor Claudius II Gothicus decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men.

Valentine, in defiance of the injustice of the decree, married couples in secret.

When Saint Valentine’s actions were discovered, Claudius ordered his execution.

This same plot has played out throughout history. Leader makes outrageous decree or law. Good citizen or saint defies the order. Good person dies. Leader keeps killing. Good people keep dying.

This Valentine’s Day, I’d like to honor the good people who have died over centuries (and presently) who are simply trying to fight for human rights and freedom.

People deserve the freedom to choose what their lives look like.

Period.

This Valentine’s Day, ironically, my love is thousands of miles away—as a soldier. The day brings some sadness, of course, because I cannot be with the person I want to be with.

The day also brings a twinge of pain over the losses of good men and women who were just trying to do the right thing.

The day also brings a reminder that love is always a risk.

And love, I believe, is always a risk worth taking.

Prompt: Write down what Valentine’s Day has meant to you in the past— good things? Bad things? Challenging things?

And then, write down how you want Valentine’s Day to be for you.

What do you want to honor? What is love asking you to do? What does courage mean to you?

Leave a comment

For me, it happened just as I wanted it to— unexpectedly.

I was new to Panama City Beach, and my sister’s friend invited me over for a 4th of July family barbecue. I was struggling with loneliness since I’d moved a few months earlier and decided to attend. It was outside of my comfort zone— but I knew I had to challenge myself to meet new people.

My social anxiety melted away when I was greeted with five dogs at the door. I loved all of them immediately. They had big dogs, small dogs, and one golden pitbull named “Goldie,” which they were fostering.

It was like she knew I was her mom.

And I knew she was my baby.

But not in an excited, high-energy way; it was more in a calm, relaxed way. Like if she could speak, she’d say, “Hi, mom, I knew you’d find me here.”

I had her for about 3 years and experienced a lot of love and, unfortunately, a lot of trauma.

She became aggressive, and we had to move out of our apartment. Two police officers showed up at my door late at night and handed me a letter saying I had 48 hours to get out.

I had work the next day. How was I going to find a home for both of us in 48 hours?

We couch-surfed for a bit till I finally found a roommate willing to take us both in. I am indebted to a few friends who held nonjudgmental space for me and supported both of us. I felt like an awful dog mom. How could this happen? She was so calm and sweet. It was like all of a sudden a switch flipped inside of her.

People talk about how this can happen with pitbulls— and I thought they were being a little dramatic.

They weren’t. It can happen. And it happened to me.

Even though I never felt unsafe with her— like she would turn on me— I did feel nervous every single time I took her outside. I was terrified a dog would be off-leash. I was terrified she would get spooked by something and respond with aggression.

She was about one year old when I adopted her, and, of course, we don’t know her history. I did know, however, that she didn’t come from the best of circumstances.

But I thought if I just kept working with her, she would grow out of it.

She did not.

It got worse.

And then, my greatest nightmare happened this year.

I couldn’t justify keeping her anymore, and had to make the hardest decision of my life to keep my neighbors safe— I had to put her down.

That was one month ago now, and while I am still grieving the loss of her and the trauma that led to having to make that painful decision, I decided to return to the shelter this week.

I am still in that early grief stage where life doesn’t seem real.

I expect her to run to me when I open the door. I save my broccoli stems because she loves to eat them. I feel a pang of sadness when I finish a yogurt carton because she’d wait so excitedly for me to scrape all I could out so she could lick the rest. All of the treats she’d get from the kitchen, she would take to her lair— her safe place under my bed.

I still find bits of broccoli stem or shoelaces that she chewed up, saved in her lair.

After putting her down, I was once again floating in the space of unleashed grief. Everything was in grayscale. Nothing was really funny or sad or anything. Life was numb.

I needed to be around the greatest loves in the world… dogs.

So, I went back to the shelter.

On Saturday, I took out two dogs. The first dog was named Hank. He was a medium-sized white-and-black dog with short hair and a timid spirit. The sweet boy didn’t even want to leave the shelter. I tried to take him for a walk, but he didn’t seem to know how. Maybe he had never been on a walk before? He circled me instead of walking in a straight line. Tail between his legs. I decided he needed to go back after a short walk.

The next dog was bigger than the last one. Black and tan and giddy. His name was Dos. This boy was stoked to get into the car. We drove a few miles to a park with lots of space to run. I ran next to him, and he jumped in the air, excitedly tapping his nose to my shoulder. Yes, that’s how big he was— he could jump and hit my shoulder.

I loved peering back at him. Tongue hanging out, face out the window, slobber just flying.

When I brought Dos back, the lady at the shelter was extremely thankful for me taking out their more energetic dogs. I was appreciative as well. Parts of me healed that day. I got to be around two dogs who were ok with other dogs. When I brought Dos back, a little girl was standing in the entrance of the animal shelter, and my entire body broke out in a sweat. I was nervous to have any dogs around that small child.

She reached her little hand out, and Dos met her softly with his wet nose. She grabbed his furry face with both hands. Dos was delighted.

I breathed through it.

I drove home from my first time walking the shelter dogs since losing Goldie in complete silence. It took a while, but I eventually cried. I cried for the loss of her, the trauma that happened, and the situations that cause dogs to have trauma responses.

Through tears and acceptance, I felt my heart heal just a little more that day.

Sometimes, in order to heal, we have to go right back to the center of what we lost.

Most of my posts contain a prompt for you to try if you’d like - writing is what always brings me home to myself and deeper into healing.

Prompt: If you’ve lost a pet, take a moment to imagine them lying next to you. Imagine them looking at you. Imagine them giving you kisses. If he/she could speak to you in this moment, what would he/she say?

Learn more about Emilee’s writing: https://www.emileemae.com/writing

Order my book: https://www.amazon.com/Start-Here-Honest-Journey-Twenties/dp/1737630869

Or send me a message and I’ll email you a free e-book, all I ask in return is for an honest review.

Cheers,

Em

This is what my notes app looks like—

Passwords for email:

Minnesota!93

Lovinlife123

Fuckthisshit!22

Keys2023

Itgetsbetter29

TreesandFreedom31!

The crossed out ones are old passwords, just to make sure I wouldn’t get flagged for “using a password I’ve already used.”

I have to change my passwords so often because I either forget them or because my email provider thinks the host of emails from senders such as Michaels, REI, and the Bay County Public Library should have maximum security.

When I turned 26, I did a very unforgettable, monumental thing.

I asked Google a question about my personal life.

Seated at an old wooden desk with a bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios and a glass of red wine, I Googled: Feeling hopeless at 26.

This was way before ChatGPT— by the way— so Google was the only engine I could ask such a quarter-life-crisis question.

After a few hotline numbers, I found a blog post.

I saved the hotlines (just in case) and read the blog post.

This girl was 29 years old and reflecting on her younger self— with such age and wisdom— she spoke to younger train wrecks like me.

She encouraged us that it would get better. She went through a bad breakup at 26 years old and thought she had lost “the one.” She didn’t have direction in her career and no money or title to her name. She felt like a failure. And then! She met her now-husband. She fell in love, got married, found her career path, and they were happy to announce: they were procreating.

Finishing that blog post, and my second bowl of cereal and glass of wine, I decided I would manifest the best year of my life to be 29 years old. To display my faith in the matter, and as a way to remember my passwords, I changed every single password to include the number 29.

Trees29#. Minnesota!29. Happiness!29.

It worked to remember my passwords. But, somehow, it manifested exactly the opposite.

It manifested THE WORST YEAR OF MY LIFE.

At 29 years old, I had suffered numerous heartbreaks and the awful, terrifying, sudden loss of my closest sibling.

I was alone at his funeral.

Of course, I had loving family and friends— which I am eternally grateful for— but I did not have a partner. I did not have that one person who is supposed to be with you through everything— even the worst.

My cheating boyfriend said he’d “fly to Minnesota to be with me,” and I said no, thank you. I still needed to figure out what to do with him.

I was utterly, sickeningly alone.

I remember a woman writing to me on Facebook and saying, “I’m so sorry to hear about the loss of your brother. My mom died last year, and I COULD NOT SURVIVE without the support of my husband. Best wishes to you.”

I didn’t have a husband. I didn’t even have a faithful partner. And now, I didn’t have a brother.

I wrote many blog posts, and eventually, published my memoir “Start Here: The Raw and Honest Journey of a Nomad in her Twenties.”

Oh, how different it was from the girl’s blog post I read when I was 26. I felt even more like a failure. She had found blissful happiness at 29, and I found heartbreak and grief.

I changed my passwords, out of sheer comedy at this point, to include the number 33 instead.

Perhaps, if I attempted to manifest 29 as the best year and it turned out to be the worst, maybe 33 would have the opposite effect? Peeking through slits in my fingers clasped over my eyes, maybe! Just maybe! Year 33 would be the best?!?

So, here we are, folks.

Today, February 5, is my 33rd birthday.

Since 29, I have moved to Florida from Minnesota.

I left a toxic work environment.

I got my dive certification.

I became a USLA-certified beach lifeguard.

I got engaged to a woman. I called the wedding off.

I found peace within myself.

I applied for graduate school— and got in.

I bought a condo on the water.

I attended a grief group.

I started this Substack.

I adopted and had to say a much-too-soon goodbye to my rescue pittie, Goldie.

I completed my first internship at a behavioral hospital.

I met a man. I went on a date with this man. I went on another date with this man. And a year later, we are still going strong, even though he is now deployed 6,000 miles away.

In my 33rd year, I will graduate from Florida State University with my master’s in social work.

Even though a lot of pain and grief has happened since 29, I’d say— for 33— she’s not so bad. In fact, the manifestation of 33 just might have worked.

The thing I’ve realized since I desperately typed into Google “Feeling hopeless at 26,” is that no two lives are the same. What happened for that blog writer did not happen for me. My life has unfolded totally different from her’s.

Of course, it’s natural that we would want to ask others about their experiences. We are curious beings. We are hurting beings. We are hopeful beings. We are so many wonderfully complex things.

As I enter year 33 — I feel the special energy of my father’s favorite basketball player— Larry Bird. The number of photos we have of that paper white man in green short-shorts is a lot.

I feel good about 33.

I am writing my own story— and it looks very different from any one I’ve ever seen.

Thank you for reading my work and supporting! This cozy corner of the internet has become my healing sanctuary where I share my writing, photos, and thoughts. I love the connection this community is fostering.

Here are a few gentle ways to begin.

1. Let grief have a container

Instead of allowing grief to spill into every moment, give it intentional space.

This might look like:

• setting aside time to journal

• lighting a candle in the evening and remembering

• walking somewhere quiet and letting yourself feel fully — then consciously closing that time

This isn’t avoidance, it’s structure. It tells your nervous system: Grief is welcome here, and it doesn’t have to take over everything. Allowing grief to have a container of time gives it the space it deserves without it consuming and drowning you completely, which can be an all-too-common experience for grieving empaths.

2. Release the pain that is not yours

Empathic people often carry more than belongs to them. You are allowed to feel your own grief without carrying the entire emotional weight of the world alongside it. For empaths, that may sound nearly impossible— especially if you’ve been carrying the emotional weight of yourself and others for an extended period of time.

A soft question to return to:

What part of this pain is mine to hold — and what part can I gently set down?

Another great question to ask yourself is: what part of this pain doesn’t belong to me? If you find you’re holding generational pain, trauma, or shame from someone else, perhaps you can kindly release it and give it back to the rightful owner. It is no longer yours to hold. It never was.

3. Anchor yourself in the body

Grief lives in the body, especially for sensitive people. For empathic people, grief is rarely confined to emotion alone — it moves through the body as much as the mind. Because empaths tend to have highly responsive nervous systems, loss often shows up physically as exhaustion, tightness in the chest, shallow breathing, disrupted sleep, or unexplained aches.

The body stays on high alert, sensing absence and emotional shifts as real threats. Even moments of quiet can feel heavy, as if the body is bracing for more pain. This isn’t weakness; it’s the body’s attempt to process deep attachment and emotional resonance in a world that suddenly feels unsafe.

Psychologically, grief can feel consuming for empaths because they don’t just mourn what was lost — they continually relive it. Memories, imagined futures, and others' emotions blend, making it difficult to find mental rest. Empaths may ruminate, question their reactions, or feel guilt for not “coping better,” especially when they appear outwardly functional. The mind searches for meaning while the heart remains open, creating a cycle of deep feeling and overthinking.

Without space to process safely, grief can quietly erode a sense of self, leaving empaths feeling untethered — deeply caring, yet unsure how to carry that care without losing themselves.

A few gentle ways to anchor your body and mind in the present moment:

• box breathing or three simple deep belly breaths

• grounding outdoors by standing still and focusing on contact with the earth

• gentle movement such as unscripted yoga

The body stores trauma, as we know from Dr. Bessel van der Kolk’s work, The Body Keeps the Score. After trauma, the brain’s alarm system (the amygdala) becomes overactive, constantly scanning for danger, while the areas responsible for rational thought and emotional regulation (especially the prefrontal cortex) become less effective. At the same time, the hippocampus—responsible for organizing memories—struggles to properly store traumatic experiences. As a result, trauma is often remembered not as a story from the past, but as intense physical sensations, emotions, or reactions happening in the present.

This is why survivors may experience hypervigilance, dissociation, chronic tension, or sudden emotional flooding without fully understanding why. The body reacts as if the trauma is still occurring, releasing stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, which over time can contribute to chronic pain, autoimmune issues, gastrointestinal problems, fatigue, and difficulty sleeping. Trauma also disrupts a person’s sense of safety, trust, and connection to themselves and others.

Van der Kolk emphasizes that healing trauma requires more than talking about it. Because trauma lives in the body, recovery must involve approaches that help the nervous system regain a sense of safety and regulation. Effective healing methods often include body-based and experiential therapies such as EMDR, somatic experiencing, yoga, breathwork, and movement practices that help individuals reconnect with bodily sensations in a safe way.

Therapy that fosters mindfulness and self-awareness helps people notice their internal states without being overwhelmed by them. Building supportive relationships is also crucial; safe connection with others helps rewire the nervous system and restore trust.

4. Release the idea that healing means you’ve “moved on”

Many empathic grievers fear that easing pain means they’ve “moved on” and no longer care about the person they lost. But love doesn’t shrink when grief softens; it expands. Of course, you know this logically— that your loved one wouldn’t want you stuck in deep grief forever. And yet, the mind sets off tiny alarms when we finally find ourselves laughing or enjoying time with friends, or enjoying literally any small thing in the day. This is a sign of healing. The person you loved and lost will always be a part of you.

I am currently in my MSW program and learning so, so, so much about the science and physiology of grief. I went into this program because I was drowning in my own grief as a deep-feeling and empathic person. I’ve always been a deep-feeler (crying when my brother caught a fish and I saw his little fishy lip punctured by the hook, or when I first met a teenage girl at the beach who said she didn’t have any food to eat, I drove home and made her six PB&J sandwiches and cried driving the entire way there and back.)

I’ve got this whole empathic thing baaadddddddd.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way— but there’s power in learning how to protect yourself, let go of the pain that’s not yours to hold, and find gratitude along the way.

If these four things were helpful for you, please do G&G with E a big favor and share it with someone!

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When I first received news about my brother’s sudden passing at just 31 years old by suicide, I fell to the floor. I screamed an animalistic, terrifying scream. I pressed my reddened face into my sister’s carpeted floor and rocked back and forth. Something inside of me tried to dig deeper into the floor, like my soul was in so much pain it wanted to retreat from life, too.

There’s nowhere to go in early grief.

No amount of alcohol or drugs will make that pain stop. Grief is a process. I found two things that would become my supports for surviving that first year—walking and reading.

Walking in nature is one of the most soothing actions we can take for our stressed-out nervous systems in early grief. Walking lowers cortisol levels, a stress hormone rampant in early grief. Walking is simple— it doesn’t require much planning or organizing. Walking stimulates bilateral activity, engaging both hemispheres of the brain and soothing the nervous system. Walking helps us process trauma, release emotions, and strengthen our hearts.

Walking and reading can be done simultaneously if you’re the Audible type, but if you’re not, the second-best thing to walking, I found, is reading. And not just reading anything, but books about grief. I wondered if it wasn’t good that I wanted to read books on grief when all I was doing was working through grief, but it honestly helped.

Books on grief were my life-saving buoy in an ocean of grief. That, and books about higher purpose and soul-work. In this post, I will share my top two books on grief and my top two books on soul-work—all of which were helpful to me as I attempted to find my footing in this new, shattered reality.

Soul Books

1. Sacred Earth Sacred Soul by John Philip Newell

Sacred Earth, Sacred Soul by John Philip Newell is a spiritual book rooted in Celtic wisdom that invites readers to reawaken to what the soul already knows about the sacredness of life. Newell draws on the earth-centered spirituality of the Celtic Christian tradition to show how recognizing the sacredness of the Earth, other people, and ourselves can help heal the world, overcome conflict, and deepen our spiritual connection with God, nature, and one another. Through stories and teachings from Celtic figures and spiritual pioneers, the book offers a vision for living that honors the divine in all creation and supports meaningful transformation in both personal and global contexts.

1. The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer

The Untethered Soul by Michael A. Singer is a spiritual/self-help book that explores how to free yourself from habitual thoughts and emotions that limit your inner peace. Singer guides readers to observe their inner dialogue and emotional reactions without getting caught up in them, helping you uncover a deeper sense of awareness, clarity, and freedom. The core idea is that by letting go of attachments and resisting less, you can live more fully in the present moment and experience a more expansive and peaceful inner life.

Grief Books

1. The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller

The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller is a deeply reflective book about grief, loss, and healing. Drawing on psychology, poetry, ritual, and community wisdom, Weller guides readers through what he calls the “five gates of grief,” helping us understand not just personal sorrow—but the unspoken losses hidden in our souls, our relationships, and even our culture. Rather than seeing grief as a problem to fix, he invites readers to embrace sorrow as a sacred, transformative experience that can deepen connection, compassion, and our capacity to live fully. The book emphasizes ritual, community, and mindful awareness as essential tools for processing grief and finding renewal.

1. It’s Ok That You’re Not Ok by Megan Devine

It’s Ok That You’re Not Ok by Megan Devine is a warm, compassionate guide to grief that meets you exactly where you are. Instead of offering fixes or platitudes, it validates the reality of loss and reminds you that grief isn’t something to “get over.” Gentle and honest, the book feels like a steady companion, offering permission to feel, to take your time, and to know that what you’re experiencing truly makes sense.

If any of these books or ideas are supportive to you, please let me know. I have been there, in the wilderness of early grief, and I know that it won’t stay that way forever. We will always have the scars and pain of the loss, but, believe me, it shifts. It will come to look and feel a little different for you as time goes on.

Much love,

Grief & Gratitude with Em

I don’t know about y’all, but 2025 was HEAVY. I broke off an engagement. I moved back into my own home. I was swamped with school, internship, work, and life. This was the first year I actually started ordering my groceries. I thought I’d have to drop out of school because I was so stressed. I had a very reactive dog and, while I loved her, it caused a lot of anxiety for me. Every walk we went on, I was nervous about other dogs being off leash, or kids walking up, or literally anything out of the ordinary.

But, I kept committed to my self-care practices, workout routines, and healthy eating habits.

I took a lot of steps, 3,557,000 to be exact. I swam a lot, about 49,000 yards. I read every day. I read memoirs, fiction, nonfiction, and textbooks, totaling over 10,000 pages. I meditated for a total of 9 hours and 54 minutes in 2025. But one thing I stopped doing that I used to do a lot of was writing.

In 2022, I published my memoir, Start Here: The Raw and Honest Journey of a Nomad in Her Twenties. Simultaneously, I was working on another book. This one was about wilderness therapy from the child’s perspective, split with the mother’s perspective. I felt very intrigued (and bothered) by some of my experiences as a field guide in wilderness therapy, and I couldn’t let their stories go. So, I made characters of my own that resembled experiences and individuals I encountered during my two years as a guide.

My goal for the wilderness therapy novel was 50,000 words. I reached 46,789 and stopped for an entire year. It was uploaded to the cloud and left on an unplugged computer for the entire year of 2025. I didn’t even think about bringing it back. The thought of returning to a creative project when I was overwhelmed with school, life, stress, etc, was not even on the table. Even though I know that creativity is the antidote to stress, I couldn’t bring myself back to work on it.

Slowly but surely, in 2025, I started finding myself again. I loved being back in my own space. I wasn’t interested in dating— at all— but guess what? I fell in love in 2025. I met someone who matched my level of motivation for bettering myself, my creativity, curiosity, and adventurous spirit. There was no pressure or intensity, as I’d experienced so many times before. This time, there was an odd sense of peace. Like when a foster dog comes into a new home and isn’t quite sure yet if it’s safe. It might wander around the cozy home, accept a few treats, but wonder if this was a trap all along.

I did the bravest thing I could ever do— and that was to allow myself to be loved.

I never thought I’d do that again.

Like, ever.

Staying in theme with the year of the Snake, I feel like I shed a lot of old beliefs. They were uncomfortable to let go of because they’d embedded themselves into my being. I didn’t think I could function without these beliefs keeping me in my safe little box of a life. Love is not safe— stay away. People will get jealous of you and hurt you for absolutely no reason— so stay away.

Meeting my partner, there was no way around the fact that I instantly felt safe with him. I tried to find little things, but they disproved themselves. Eventually, I opened my heart and allowed him in. A big risk.

But, as the year of the Snake would have it, change and discomfort happened.

He got deployed for a year.

Four months later, my dog had to be put down due to her aggression.

That’s all within 2025.

Oof-da, as we say in Minnesota.

I was alone, again.

But this time it was different. I felt his support from thousands of miles away. I lost my dog and grieved her so painfully, along with the awful circumstance that happened with her before we had to make that terrible decision. And yet, she was now my spirit baby. I have experienced loss and grief enough at this point to know their spirits live on.

The year ended with a beautiful time in Greece with my love, while also grieving the loss of our dog - a poignant reminder of the yin and yang.

I didn’t know much about the Zodiac thing— what number or animal the year was, but once I started looking into it, I found it pretty on point.

And so, the Year of the Snake comes to a close. She slithers off with all the old, dead skin and beliefs. She rearranged some things— and it was far from painless.

Galloping into 2026, we have the Year of the Horse.

Numerically, it’s also a “one” year, whereas 2025 was a “nine” year. 2025 really was a closing out, a letting go, a releasing.

Twenty-twenty-six, the Year of the Horse, marks a new beginning.

A fresh start.

It’s proof that all of the pain of the past was not wasted.

I imagine this horse of 2026 running free on the beach, hair waving in the wind. She knows pain. And she knows the unspoken golden gift found within grief. The strength, the endurance, the freeing.

Cheers to the Year of Running Wild and Free. I am proud to say that only two days into this new year, I have returned to my wilderness therapy novel and FINALLY met my goal of 50,000 words. I didn’t have much left when I left off, but I had lost interest. Why would I keep writing? Who cares?

And then I remembered, I care.

That’s really all that matters.

“What’s her last name?” she asked, perplexed as she didn’t see anything pull up for Goldie.

“I’m here for her ashes,” I said, beginning to tear up.

“Oh my goodness,” she said. “Okay, I will be right back.”

The young woman returned with a navy blue gift bag and a sealed envelope that might as well have been sent from British royalty. A navy blue satin pouch inside, where my baby girl’s ashes were held.

The girl gave me a hug, and people in the waiting area began to tear up as well.

I walked outside and instantly broke down crying. I couldn’t hold it together any longer, I was outside in the fresh air and let it all go.

A woman was standing there in a red sweatshirt with some football team logo on it. She saw me and asked, “What’s wrong?” She automatically opened her arms for a hug.

Before I could say anything, I was crying into this woman’s shoulder as she held me.

I whispered through tears, “these are my dog’s ashes.”

She held me tightly, “I’m sorry,” she whispered back. Her husband walked up, wearing the same sweatshirt. In retrospect, I hope it was the Kansas City Chiefs, but I didn’t take note at the time. Speaking of grief— sorry, Mahomes, about your season-ending ACL injury. That sucks. And Trav is nearing retirement?! I don’t follow teams, but I do follow Taylor Swift :)

Anyway, this sweet couple stood there with sincere faces and listened as I told them how wonderful Dr. Megan and her team are— and then I thanked her for the much-needed hug and walked away.

I climbed into my car and set the gift bag aside. I drove straight to the first place I took Goldie on a hike. It was June 2022, and it was hotter than hell out on that trail—but I had a high-energy dog, and she wanted to go for a long walk. I didn’t know how long the trail was, but we walked— she pulled— and didn’t make it very far before she was panting. We turned around, drank a lot of water, and I remember feeling so thankful I finally have a dog of my own. My sweet little baby girl.

When I lived in Idaho, I would frequently visit the dog shelter and take dogs on runs with me in the mountains. I remember one in particular, she was a pittie, and I took her up this steep mountain. Her strong legs and paws gripped the rock and climbed quickly. We ran at an easy pace together and enjoyed water after our adventure. I probably took out about 10 different dogs during that time. Each of them is a beautiful adventure in its own right.

On my hike with Goldie’s ashes, the day after Christmas, I was thankful the weather matched my melancholy. It was foggy, low cloud coverage, and the mossy trees still hung with precipitation.

I walked her through the forest, breathing deeply and walking intently.

We made it to a bench where I sat and held her in my hands. I teared up, eyes of grief and gratitude.

I felt complete peace. I know this peace from experiencing terrible losses in the past. It is the peace of Philippians 4:7, “the peace that surpasses all understanding.”

When we experience such gut-wrenching loss, as we all will in this life, there is this remarkable golden light that reaches the hearts of the grieving and turns pain and loss into gratitude and love.

Every single loss I’ve experienced in this life comes with great, overflowing amounts of gratitude for the love I developed for that person or pet or experience.

May we keep loving, and finding the gratitude in the healing balm of grief.

Thank you for reading my work.

Much love,

Em