For those who have been following along since my March essay -I got her 🥰

I’ve made my way from Maine to Nevada in my 🚐 van.

Meeting the artist and “Discovering Her Autonomy” were everything I’d hoped they would be.

I felt a rush of adrenaline as I walked up to the 4-by-4-foot art piece. My heart was racing. She did not disappoint!

I was electrified. The high vibration coming from the painting was palpable.

The artist, Terry Knight, shared once more the story of how she came to be. He was animated and full of passion as he described his process to me.

He took four years off from his day job to immerse himself in painting.

This piece was one of many hanging in his apartment. You can see another life-size painting just behind me.

She’s now sharing the van with me.

My next stop is Oregon to meet my dear friend Kathy. We’ll be venturing to the Oregon coast, Redwood trees, Utah parks, the Grand Canyon, and Sedona.

“Discovering Her Autonomy” will be right by my side as we make our way. Discovering together!

72 hours ago, I had a come undone kinda day. The kind of day that felt extremely unglamorous when one ponders what van life might be like.

When I first envisioned such a lifestyle, I have to admit I was smitten. Different destinations, beautiful landscapes, getting out into nature, and of course FREEDOM.

This was a choice I made back in December after Christmas and, I must say, manifest I did. The actual decision, finding a van, and renting, now selling, my condo literally manifested with such ease it’s undeniable that it was the correct decision for me.

I’ve always marveled at how the universe opens and closes doorways and windows at just the right time. I also realize that the astrology in the sky is wholeheartedly supporting—or shall I say validating—what’s happening in real time.

Hence the mini-meltdown from 72 hours ago.

Potent eclipse energy having its way with me. Pisces full moon creeping in and having its way with me.

Grief having its way with me.

Life having its way with me.

I had planned to stay in Colorado with my daughter Amy for 15 days, knowing full well she has work and commitments. Ideally, I would venture out, see the Vail area, and spend early mornings and evenings with her.

On night 7, I had a realization that my plan for the following segment of my travels included leaving my camper van in the HOT Denver sun while I flew to Phoenix for a grief conference for parents whose children have died.

I still can’t believe I’m a member of that club, yet so it is.

Anyhow, the heat is what alarmed me. I have an e-bike lithium battery that can’t be left in the heat of the van OR brought on a plane.

Van life mode kicked into high gear.

I proceeded to stay up until midnight (totally not my jam; I’m an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kinda gal) and completely revamped my itinerary.

I decided, along with the help of Blaze (my AI travel companion), to drive to high-elevation Flagstaff, Arizona, leave my van there, and get a shuttle to the conference while carrying my lithium battery into the cool indoor conditions of the hotel.

Problem averted!

I canceled my flight on JetBlue, and the points went right back to my account. Then I laid my weary van-life-travel head to sleep.

Here’s where the logistical pains came knocking.

The next day…I spent like four solid hours mapping out with Blaze my Avon, Breckenridge, Salida, Ouray, Telluride, Mesa Verde, and Flagstaff venture. (I know, don’t hate me—it’s jaw-dropping awesome.)

The combination of that many hours on the computer, avoiding hot temperatures for overnights (no AC in the van, which is pretty common out here in the van life world), and missing a bluebird day in Avon made me unravel like I haven’t experienced in quite some time.

When I was finished, I didn’t want to go outside and enjoy the day. I wanted to retreat, lie on the couch, and fall into sleep to escape the overwhelm.

This has been my go-to coping skill for eons.

Like a turtle.

Check out. Close my eyes. Retreat. Hermit.

And I judge myself for it ALL THE TIME.

In the middle of all this messy, yucky, unflattering cauldron of self-pity, my dear friend Shauna texted me:

Are you back on the road?

There it was. The universe once again.

The sacred Metatron matrix of my witchy soul-sister tribe and their uncanny intuitive abilities to reach out just as I need them.

This isn’t something I’m exaggerating about. This, for real, is a collective of women who have shown up for me over and over again through my almost 10 years of recovery.

These are the women who stood by me when so many others fell away as my life changed—through me stopping drinking, my divorce, and now the deaths of two children by suicide.

The “normies,” as we sometimes call people outside recovery circles, don’t always know what to do with the uncomfortable. I’ve long accepted that fact. Which makes the tribe I’ve cultivated that much more magical.

Shauna is a life coach. We’ve been friends for over a decade—since before I got sober. She’s the friend who calls you on your shit in the most helpful and fascinating ways.

Her gifts of insight and willingness to go deep are some of the reasons why I adore her. If diving into the concepts of self-love, self-compassion, and shadow work appeals to you, I highly recommend her Substack.

Instead of texting her back, I called her.

She picked up.

A good old-fashioned phone call.

I proceeded to fill her in on my cranky current state. My tone was whiny, frustrated, and furious.

Her presence was grounding and welcome, like she was in the room with me in Colorado and not in New Hampshire. Her ability to listen and dissect the truth of what was really going down is nothing short of phenomenal.

Then came the question that turned the whole cauldron of mess around:

“MaryBeth, what’s really going on? What are you really upset about? What are you using all this planning, logistics, and frustration to avoid addressing?”

ooof

Talk about stopping the madness.

Literally, it was all I needed to pause and consider:

What the hell is really going on?

It was a mix of expectations lost—the expectation that I should be enjoying every minute of this adventure, that freedom should somehow feel easy. Limiting beliefs that keep on limiting. The belief that maybe if I’m overwhelmed, I’m doing something wrong. Patterns surfacing to be seen. The grief spiral and my sensitive nervous system.

And my little MB inside—scared and seeking safety, wondering if I am doing the right thing by getting in a van and leaving what I know.

All of it.

As the phone call proceeded, I went from a rocky girl on tumultuous waves in the ocean to the anchored and grounded warrior goddess that I know I am.

I am my home! I am my anchor.

This van life is new. Of course there will be new challenges and not-so-glamorous parts to it.

My beautiful friend Shauna helped me find my anchor and remember.

How fucking cool is that?

In her words, my compassionate companion resurrected to accompany me through the rough waters.

She helped me not abandon myself.

Not punish myself.

Gold, really.

It was yet another life opportunity to practice self-love and self-compassion.

They keep on coming.

Takeaway:

Find your tribe. Be very mindful of the company you keep. Reach out to a trusted friend when you are in need.

We get by with a little help from our friends.

It’s everything.

I’m the sole decision-maker. When do I leave? When do I eat? Where do I stay? How long do I drive? Where do I stop? Lots of decisions that hold lots of freedom, but also a bit of mental exhaustion. So I’m learning…baby steps, grasshopper!

When I have the bliss moments, I plan to share them here because the theme of my van life is finding the bliss along the healing journey. It feels very divinely guided and supported by forces beyond the veil.

I took the Maid of the Mist boat ride to the base of the falls. They give you a rain poncho, so I knew I’d get soggy.

I did not expect a torrential downpour!

I closed my eyes and looked toward the heavens as I opened my arms, exposing my two tattoos representing Tim and Olivia. Tears flowed and flowed. Rain and tears mixed.

The water was cool and welcome.

Rain on me!

It was most definitely a divine moment, marking the beginning of my journey.

When I returned to the dock, it dawned on me that the rain was Tim and Olivia. Remember Kisses from Heaven ? Well, you can’t make this up.

Not only did I feel Tim and Olivia, I felt all the ancestors before me.

Rain has taken on a whole new meaning for me.

Onward.

The moment I’ve been waiting for—August 3rd. The beginning of my official van life journey.

Months of dreaming, planning, packing, and minimizing.

I’ve been living in the van for two weeks at my niece’s house in Maine as I finish up physical therapy and acupuncture appointments in July. She and her family’s hospitality have been key in this transition. I have so much deep love and appreciation for the family who have shown up for me.

My condo has been in rental mode since June to help fund my new adventure, so I guess you could say it’s official—I’m a van lifer!!

I have been pleasantly surprised at the comfort and ease that have floated into my life since the move into the van (despite electrical battery snafus). My niece and I giggle over the fact that I’m choosing the van over her home, but I gotta say, it’s pretty darn nice in my cozy little home.

I spent yesterday finalizing my “must-have” items and storing the extras in my condo garage at rental turnover. I said goodbye to my Mini Cooper and home by the sea until late October. As I closed the garage door, I realized I wasn’t just saying goodbye until October. I was saying goodbye to a chapter of my life.

I have other big news: I’ve decided to sell my condo. Tuesday’s Full Moon in Aquarius shed some huge light on the beliefs I was holding about keeping it. With each layer of revelation, I felt lighter and more free. One of the biggest beliefs I held was that I needed to have a home for my children to return to. In the divorce, we sold my children’s childhood home in 2022. The guilt and grief of that weighed heavily on my heart. I made the decision to move to the ocean for two reasons: one, to heal by the sea, and two, to create a fun place for my kids to visit. I wanted them to have a destination to come to so it would feel like a vacation when they visited. Maybe that was a sneaky tactic to get them to come visit? A little overachieving? A little codependent? Perhaps people-pleasing? I see it. I own it. So many complex layers of behavior, right?

Well, on Tuesday, that literally all melted away. All that gooey, sticky, heavy grief and guilt vanished.

When I gained a different perspective on the actual reality, I was released from the belief I was holding onto. The belief that I am responsible to have an address for my kids to come home to. My two oldest children, Tim and Olivia, are on the other side of the veil. They are home with the Source they came from. They are held, loved, and protected. My love for them is constant and unwavering. Their essence is forever present in me like a breath. Always with me.

Kyle and Amy are two beautiful souls on their own paths. Capable, resilient, and thriving.

Capable, resilient, and thriving after the suckiest year any sibling should have to endure. I’m simply amazed at how they are finding their way in the midst of such grief and loss. I’m so proud of who they are and who they are becoming.

Tuesday was an invitation to let go. “Let go” is a phrase that gets a lot of airtime but means nothing unless you embody it. Tuesdays full moon…I felt it! I notice that I have to feel all the feels and let them in before I can let them go. I’m feeling the need to share this because it truly is remarkable how the heavy can lift.

Out of nowhere?… Not really. From God? From the cosmos? From the moon? Wherever it’s from, I’ll take it.

One spot remains for a Sherecovers.org four-night women’s recovery retreat in York Maine this October.

This retreat is an invitation to step away from the noise and reconnect with yourself in a beautiful, nourishing setting.

We’ll gather for farm-to-table meals, time in nature, hiking, the sea, the mountains, meaningful community, group coaching with Kathy Robbins and me, and nervous-system-soothing practices to help you feel grounded, rested, and supported.

This is not about fixing yourself. It is about making space to breathe, soften, connect, and remember who you are.

If this feels like your spot, sign up here. I would love to welcome you. 🦞

When my great-nephew John (3 years old) tried to capture my attention, I had no idea what it would turn into.

“Auntie MaryBeth… Wabba wabba.”

There was a cute little Sesame Street song playing in the car. I was raised on Sesame Street. Anyone 60ish years old and younger will relate to its genius. Grover was singing the catchy tune on our short ride to Panera. I didn’t know the title of the song, but the chorus was indeed one that is still stuck in my brain on repeat days later, much like those of Taylor Swift.

His then-little brother, Louis (1 1/2 years old), started to join in and get my attention.

“Auntie… Wabba wabba,” followed by giggle after giggle.

This little banter went on through the visit. These adorable children were lit up with making me laugh with their little game of “wabba wabba.” I was lit up too! It was peppered through our visit; dinner, showers, play, and the before-bedtime routine. Kid energy is the best energy. Kids get this overthinking adult into more expansive, creative, light, and fun vibration.

The next day, I wanted to share the fun exchange with their cousin Lydia (6 years old) when I saw her. I pulled up the song on YouTube to share with her. I put “wabba wabba” in the search, and the song “Monster in the Mirror” came up. I’ll always be fascinated by how the internet just needs a couple of words and can find ANYTHING.

(click for the tune if you dare)

Saw a monster in the mirror when I woke up today
A monster in my mirror but I did not run away
I did not shed a tear or hide beneath my bed
Though the monster looked at me and this is what he said

The song continues with Grover and the monster singing the chorus:

“Wubba wubba wubba wubba woo woo woo
Wubba wubba wubba and a doodly do
He sang ‘Wubba wubba wubba’ so I sang it too
Do not wubba me or I will wubba you”

Why am I sharing?

Because the voice in my head can be brutal. Sesame Street helped to remind myself of this. I suffer from amnesia when stuck on the thinking hamster wheel. I can perseverate for days on end with negative self-talk. And if you are human like me, I know it happens to you too.

I’m here to help you lighten the fuck up. Which is exactly what the message the universe was sending me through my adorable nephews.

So, when life feels heavy, give this a listen. My hope is that you can shift your energy like what happened for me. I’d love comments on how this landed or a time when you received a timely message from the universe.

You are welcome. 😊

There’s a common sentiment in recovery groups that says, “Wanna find out who your true friends are? Get sober.” Another popular AA mantra, “If nothing changes, nothing changes,” reminds members that if you keep associating with the same crowd, you will get the same result.

I am almost 10 years into the BEST decision I’ve made in my whole life. I got sober from alcohol.

I let go of the thing that was standing between me and the life I was meant to live.

Alcohol was a friend until it wasn’t. It wasn’t all bad at the beginning. We had our good times. It provided comfort, relief, lightness, and fun. It helped me socialize and party with the best of them. It helped me escape the madness of my life and my mind.

But it also deluded me into thinking things that weren’t okay were good enough. It kept me in relationships that were long past their due date. Interestingly, the first relationship that was holding me back was alcohol itself.

Alcohol is a relationship.

So is caffeine, sugar, flour, THC, Netflix, Instagram, Amazon Prime, and Substack.

Relationships come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.

I think that’s where I got hung up. This notion of everlasting “’til death do us part” programming has really screwed with my psyche.

Here’s what’s come to my awareness in recovery: all earthly relationships have expiration dates, period. By death, divorce, or decision. Everything has a beginning, a middle, and an end. By everything, I mean matter. The form may end—the body, the role, the relationship as we knew it—but the love and lessons continue in ways I’m still learning to understand. I totally believe our spirit and love last beyond what our ego minds can even fathom. Which is comforting for me, so I’m going with it.

So, over the past decade of recovery, many of my relationships have been released. Some emotionally, some by contact, and some by attachment. It takes me a bit to get to the decision to complete, but once I’m there, it’s done. I’m one who needs a ton of evidence before I decide. I guess you could say I have a lack of self-trust. I wasn’t capable of absorbing Maya Angelou’s advice: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” Maybe it’s my hope in thinking others can change. Maybe I’m a slow learner. Perhaps it’s from my gaslit upbringing? I’m talking decades of: Should I or shouldn’t I? Is it really that bad? Do I really want the discomfort of not having that relationship?

Recovery helped me flip the script. It helped me question my imprinted beliefs.

In recovery, I started asking: How is this relationship serving me? Am I getting any benefits from this relationship? Do I feel like a better or worse version of myself because of this relationship? How do I feel after spending time with this person or thing? Do I feel safe in this relationship? Could staying hurt me?

This current recovery whack-a-mole topic has been surfacing over the past decade, rearing its head intermittently. It was not an overnight process. Even here at 60, I’m forever building this Self-Care muscle of discernment. I believe it will be a still-evolving source of material for sequels, like the one I’m about to share.

I grew up in an alcoholic family. My dad was the drinker, but much of the emotional chaos came from my mom. I took on the classic caretaker-hero role and played it out Hollywood style. In family systems, the caretaker keeps things running. I became skilled in reading the room, meeting others’ needs, staying small, following the rules, bending into a pretzel, and jumping to fix everyone and everything at the expense of myself.

I did this, of course, unconsciously. It was for survival in the system, and I obliged.

At 18, I chose to go to nursing school, which was a quintessential career move for the caretaker hero. I used to proudly refer to my career choice as a “calling,” which was my spiritual bypassing positive twist, which in reality was really “imprinted” on me subconsciously. The motivation behind it wasn’t entirely noble. Much of it came from an unconscious need to earn love through usefulness. I was just continuing my people-pleasing and fixing in a different arena. I had to prove my worth.

I’m sure the health care system is thrilled about dysfunctional families and the good little codependents they spill out.

I also married my unfinished business (pattern breaking) and continued as the starring lead in the continued saga of caregiving to burnout, which had successful sequels that ran for 30 years. Did I say I needed lots of evidence?

Sobriety later in life shifted me from the caregiver role to the scapegoat. The scapegoat is often the one who disrupts the illusion by naming what everyone else would rather avoid. I would dabble in this role as a teenager but it never lasted because I still relied on my family for survival. In recovery, I knew things would shift, but never to the degree I find myself in now. When I heard the saying, “First you change your drinking. Then you change your thinking. Then you change your friends,” I never expected that I’d be outgrowing my family of origin too.

I did hear the soul whisper on the day I stopped drinking that said, “You will lose your husband in this.” It was a calm knowing that didn’t stop me from seeking recovery. My higher power took the wheel and steered me straight. I followed willingly and surrendered to a power greater than myself. My life was no longer manageable with alcohol in the mix.

I’ve had a 60-year relationship with the woman who gave me life. It was one that never felt nurturing as a kid, a teen, a young adult, up to present time. It is one of those relationships where I found myself at a Hallmark store, verklempt year after year, trying to pick out a Mother’s Day card that felt aligned. The sentiments felt way too gooey and false. There was no greeting card that could capture the truth of what I was feeling about my relationship with my mom. It was complex and somehow I carried that heaviness alone.

I would always marvel at my friends who adored their moms and wondered what that must feel like. Some whose moms had died spoke of the ache and sadness of no longer having them to talk to. I felt guilty. I couldn’t tap into this knowing, the deep connection and love. I continuously went back, hoping that somehow this time would be different.

What I experienced was all I knew, of course, so like a good little girl, I got in line. I also learned all the other cool survival skills, like running to my room crying at the drop of a hat and staying in there for hours, people-pleasing, dissociating when my parents fought, staying small, keeping my mouth shut, and gaslighting myself when we’d go to church and act like a loving family. No crazy here.

The “acting like a normal family” I picked up on rather quickly. Wait a minute, you can act all crazy and mean and then go out in public and pretend we are happy? How odd that felt to my younger self. I love that little one!

I was probably around 5 or 6 when I felt like I didn’t belong in the family. It didn’t help that my older brother would tease me and say that I was adopted. For some reason, I thought that was a bad thing at 5 and was so devastated. Now it would make a whole lot more sense if that statement were true.

I had no idea a random lunch date was going to be such a pivotal day for me. I woke up like any other day, hopeful for a decent day. I’m an annoying optimist despite my life circumstances.

I was hopeful and suffering from a bad case of amnesia when it came to making a lunch date with my mom and daughter while my daughter was home from Colorado.

Sounds like a harmless outing. What could possibly go wrong? I tend to be a chronic hot-stove toucher. It’s another one of my addictions — add it to the list.

In a proverbial nutshell, I experienced the “last straw.” I felt disembodied at how warped the conversation went. It’s another one of my skills for survival that got me through childhood. This time was different. I wasn’t alone; my daughter was present. My grounding witness. It wasn’t one sentence by my mom that broke me; it was the familiar rhythm of being corrected, minimized, and made responsible for everyone else’s discomfort. The specific words almost don’t matter anymore. What stayed with me was the feeling—like I had once again become the problem. Small. Ashamed. Invisible. Unworthy. Unseen.

My daughter is the magnificent creation of a pattern that’s been broken by me.

She held space for the unfolding of a shaming crusade my mother unleashed on me. A strength of hers that is pretty amazing by itself.

Let’s suffice it to say that I managed to recenter rather quickly after the attack. I processed and grounded back into my body within about 20 minutes. That’s a miracle for this girl. That’s the work paying off. Because life is going to keep on lifing. In recovery, we will never run out of material to learn from. It’s a continuous cycle.

I’m so proud of myself. I didn’t abandon myself. I’m proud I didn’t stay small and allow my mom to crucify me in front of my daughter. I did not “rise above” the verbal and mental abuse that was being thrown at me. I volleyed back calm, well-formed truths like an Olympian athlete.

Literally, I was divinely in flow. No yelling or name-calling, just my truth.

There’s an eerie, peaceful energy surrounding this whole experience. I feel complete in the relationship with my mom. I’ve gathered enough evidence for my heart to put this one down. I have come to the point in my recovery where I just love myself too much to jeopardize how far I’ve come.

Exposure to this shaming and critical energy is holding me back from the potential I have yet to experience. It’s a sad moment because she’s my mom, but it would be even sadder if I let my recovery slip and fall back into destructive patterns. I’m writing this all down so I can look back and refresh the memory. My memory that so willingly succumbs to amnesia for the sake of keeping the “mom/daughter” relationship going.

I stayed in a marriage about 15 years longer than I should have for the same reason I stayed in this one. To be a good wife, to be a good daughter.

That’s the belief I held forever.

Until NOW!

Now it’s time to nurture The Greatest Love of All. Sing it, Whitney!

Stealing away a walk by the ocean

Daily visit to soothe the soul

Calm waters meet my eyes and heart

I inhale the salt of the sea

The rain accompanies me on my stroll

Keeping me solitary-no company in sight

Feet getting soggy it’s no matter

Memories of childhood rainstorms and puddles

Sniff a rose, which one do I choose?

Any one will do -anticipation of familiar smell

No matter the shape or condition

All carry the signature scent of remembering.

As I reach mid walk at the end of the path

Rain ceases, blue sky peeks through

Heat and sun warm my face and body

Jacket off and tied at waist as I loop back

A bench with cover of leaves above

To sit, pause, close eyes and breathe

Gentle drops from the leaves

Randomly pick a spot to land on me

Cool kisses from heaven

One on the left pinky-one on the right side of my cheek

One on my right big toe, one on my left arm

Oh the uncertainty of where they land-big and small

Raindrops make contact like memories of you

Out from the heavens and onto my body

Out from the heavens and into my mind

Forever the everness of memories will come

To soothe like the ocean that sees me

To comfort me like only my God knows how

Forever connected

Infinite in delight—in my heart.

I had these grandiose thoughts about taking you all on my "van life/grief healing" journey. It sounded so possible when it first popped into my head (along with all the other fabulous ideas this Aries fire girl comes up with but struggles to follow through).

Sure, writing and sharing to possibly help another human along the way sounded doable. Healing for me and maybe healing for a reader too.

But why would I take that on? What do I have to prove anyway?

Then reality set in and I became stuck. Writing halted. Writers block with zero desire to put pen to paper…even if it’s therapeutic. Ugh.

The proverbial ebb to the flow.

The "Oh, you think you've got this grief thing going on?"

Smack into my face... the brick wall of:

Oh my God.

My two oldest children are dead.

I literally saw my reflection in the mirror the other day and saw such a shell peering back at me.

Where did I go?

The ground beneath me has shifted so completely that everything feels foreign. Even my own reflection.

I felt such deep compassion for the dear friend looking back at me.

Why would I think I'd be o.k. so soon? Olivia died May 2025 and Tim only August 2025.

How could I possibly expect anything beyond getting out of bed some days?

I realized I was trying to do healing right.

What does that even mean?

There's no right way to heal from the undeniable trauma of losing two children by suicide.

No checklist.

No gold star.

No timeline.

No moment where someone taps you on the shoulder and says, "Congratulations. You've grieved correctly."

That sneaky perfectionism swoops in every single time.

The same voice that followed me through nursing, motherhood, marriage, recovery, teaching, and just about every corner of my life suddenly showed up in grief.

You should be stronger.

You should be further along.

You should be making meaning from this.

You should be helping other people by now.

But grief doesn't care about should.

Grief asks for surrender. Grief demands it.

It asks me to stop performing healing and simply tell the truth.

And the truth is that some days I still wake up and remember.

Again.

Tim is dead.

Olivia is dead.

And for a few moments, it feels as shocking as the first time I learned it.

Some days I can sit by the ocean, teach a yoga class, laugh with a friend, or dream with excitement about future adventures in the van.

Other days, getting dressed feels heroic.

Maybe both are healing.

Maybe healing isn't becoming who I was before.

I don’t want to be who I was before.

I will be forever changed by knowing them and getting to be their mom.

I will be forever changed by having to let go of their earthly form.

That never goes away, nor would I want it to.

Maybe healing is learning how to carry the unbearable.

It’s literally reinventing being on this earth in a whole new way.

I have no idea what that will look like.

I don't know.

What I do know is that I am still here.

Breathing.

Walking.

Trying.

And for now, that feels like enough.

And Tim was not the only one of my children to die. Three months prior, Olivia (25 years old) took her life. She was over his shoulder when he came to me in the dream. She was present, but didn’t offer anything more than what Tim had suggested. There was a distinct telepathic communication, though. Something like, “Ya Ma, he’s right. Listen to Tim.”

There was such comfort in that visit, in their presence, in the advice. But even more so in the fact that they came to me together. Like they were on their next journey together. They were, and continue to be, deeply bonded. It’s beautiful to me and a reminder of how, here on earth, they made such a great connection. Or maybe their connection started even before their time here on earth, because they are wise souls with deep knowing and wonderful advice for their still-earthly mother.

Today, that conscious breath in showed up more profoundly again, but this time in meditation. It wasn’t just something Tim had said to me in a dream. It became something I could feel in my body in real time.

In meditation today, I felt on the inhale the breath rising from my tailbone up the back of my spine to my crown. At the crown, it felt as if there were a lotus flower opening to the heavens. It was smooth, comforting, and expansive on the inhale, as my crown opened toward the cosmos. It’s the comforting space where I’m greeted by not only Tim and Olivia, but my Dad, my ex-father-in-law Dick, my uncle Sam, Prince, yes Prince and all my spirit guides, ancestors, and benevolent beings. All those souls who went before me, comforting me simultaneously. And yes, I know how that sounds, but seriously, it’s like a dopamine hit if you let it be.

Then there was a pause at the end of the inhale. It was an effortless pause. I wanted to linger in it forever. It felt blissful to be in the energy of that heavenly wonderland.

Then came the reminder: oh ya, I’m still human and on this earth. The exhale is inevitable at some point, IYKYK. The release into the exhale has such ease to it. Although I don’t want to leave the blissful state of the inhale, my analytical brain knows there’s a delicious inhale waiting to receive me on the other side.

That’s when my lungs intuitively allow the slow descent and exhale to come back down the front of my spine and into the ground beneath me. My exhale was returning me to earth, where I am now for the time being. Where my story still continues.

The chime rings and the session is complete. Honestly, I could stay in it much longer, but my 3D life calls. I open my eyes and I’m as ready as ever to meet my day, realizing I’m not really in charge here. I’m here for a time. I have this body. I was given this life.

Life is finite, but the soul is forever ∞.

I know for certain my children in spirit are still very much a part of my life, even though their bodies are no longer here. It’s a soul thing. How beautiful that they came to remind me they are only an inhale away. I do that at least 20 times a minute! That just goes to show you how present they are to me. Maybe now, in some sacred way, they are the ones taking care of me.

What a gift.

Sometimes something comes into your life that just feels… meant.

My dear friend Trina shared that her friend believes we are cleansing our future soul karma in this lifetime.

Sometimes when you hear something like that, it just lands in your bones.

Like… yes.
That feels true.

It’s moments like this where I feel the universe throwing me a bone.

A reminder that I am supported in ways I can’t even see.
A sign that I am on the right path.

Because honestly… so much of my time is spent wondering:

What is all of this about?
Where is the relief?
Why does life have to be so hard?

A lot of the time it feels like I’m alone in it.

But then something like this comes in —
we are cleansing our future soul karma in this lifetime —
and suddenly… it helps something settle.

Maybe that’s what the mind is always trying to do.
Make meaning out of the mess.

Back in 2022, I first laid eyes on an art piece by Terry Knight.

It was love at first sight.

The sacred geometry.
The energy.
The colors.
The detail.

All of it.

Something in me just recognized it.

I reached out to him and asked about the painting.
He told me it was called “Discovering Her Autonomy.”

He shared that he created it after witnessing a woman leave a toxic, narcissistic marriage and find herself again.

No wonder I connected to it.

I’m her.

Looking at her now, after two of my four children have died, it’s remarkable.

She has two arms raised toward the sky — holding Tim and Olivia —
and two arms reaching down toward the earth for Kyle and Amy who are still here.

It amazes me how supportive this piece has become for me.

Another one of those moments where you think…
you can’t make this shit up.

Another sign that I’m being supported on my path.

I had planned to purchase the 4 x 4 painting, but life shifted for him.

He moved across the country and was settling in. It was placed in storage.

I’ve come to believe in timing.

So instead, I kept her energy close in other ways.

She became my Zoom image when my camera was off.
The wallpaper on my phone.
A small print on my altar.

Even without the physical painting, she was with me.

After my children died last year, I reached out to Terry again.

I felt like I needed her.

Her energy.
Her strength.
Her reminder of resilience.

At the time, I had been intentionally no contact with my ex-husband.

But the shared grief of losing two children to suicide pulled me back into his orbit.

And I felt… wobbly.

Grief has a way of doing that.

It messes with everything.

That’s why I reached out for her.

Last week, Terry texted me.

He told me the painting was mine… if I could come get it.

The excitement moved through me like a wave.

Pure joy.

I wasn’t expecting this.

I had already made peace with having just the image.

She had been enough.

But now…

I have a van!

And the freedom to drive from Maine to Nevada to go get her.

My first solo pilgrimage.

My autonomy going to claim Discovering Her Autonomy.

What are the chances?

It feels like another one of those moments.

Another sign from the universe whispering:

You’ve got this.
Go get her!

Where in your life has something happened that made you think…
you can’t make this shit up —
and somehow it reassured you that you’re on the right path?

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Each New Moon we gather to pause, regulate the nervous system, and practice simple tools that help us move through life with more steadiness.

Every month the practice may be different.

Sometimes we may explore:

• acupressure
• trauma-informed yoga
• nervous system regulation techniques
• yoga nidra
• reflection connected to the New Moon

But the intention remains the same:

to stay embodied and supported in changing times.

The thread running through these gatherings is practical nervous system care during meaningful cosmic turning points.

This Month: Self-Care Acupressure

For this New Moon gathering, I’ll be sharing a gentle acupressure practice to help calm and regulate the nervous system when life feels overwhelming.

Acupressure has been one of the most supportive tools in my own life and in the work I offer others. It works with the body’s energetic pathways to release tension and bring the system back toward balance.

The practice is simple.

No experience needed.
Just your hands, your breath, and a willingness to slow down.

During the gathering I’ll:

• briefly explain the points we’ll be working with
• guide us through the practice together
• leave space afterward for reflection or sharing

The call will be about 45 minutes, but the technique itself is something you can return to anytime.

These are simple practices, but practiced together they become powerful.

Why the New Moon?

The New Moon is a natural moment to pause and reset.

A quiet turning point.

This particular New Moon carries the quiet, watery 🌊 energy of Pisces ♓.

A time when the body often asks for rest, gentleness, and softer ways of being with ourselves.

Practice with us

These gatherings are part of the paid subscriber space here on Substack.

🌑New Moon Zoom
🕛 12:00 PM ET on March 18, 2026

Paid subscribers receive the Zoom link by email on the morning of the practice.

If you’d like to join us each month for these live New Moon practices, you can upgrade below.

What Readers Receive Here

Free readers receive

• essays
• reflections
• recovery writing
• lunar insights

Paid subscribers receive

🌑 New Moon Nervous System Reset (live)
our monthly nervous system practice gathering

🌕 Full Moon reflection or Yoga Nidra recording

Sometimes the most powerful thing we can do in chaotic times
is learn how to care for our nervous systems.

I’m looking forward to practicing together.

I was fortunate enough to facilitate seven amazing women in a deep-dive family constellation workshop last weekend. My heart is full of gratitude. All eight of us walked away with healing as we helped a fellow seeker dive deep into her family system. Constellation has a way of softening the edges around the walls built up to protect and survive the harsh chaos of the world. It’s hard to describe in words just how moving this work truly is, but I will try.

I fell in love with family constellations back in 2021 through . I’m not even really sure about the timeline because I feel like since the pandemic, Kronos or linear time just feels wonky to me. I can ballpark things based on my divorce timeline, when we sold the house, when I moved to Maine, my children’s graduations, birthdays… you get the gist. Either way, I remember being open to and attending one of her constellation gatherings on Zoom. Tammy is a magnificent space holder. I’ve learned so much about recovery, energy, vibration, astrology, the quantum field, and more. Because of her, I’ve been able to step more fully into my authenticity and share the gifts I offer with my community.

I remember after the first time in a family constellation, my whole body was like, “I want more!” It was a breadcrumb in recovery that I just had to follow.

Family constellation was discovered by Bert Hellinger back in the 1940s. He went to South Africa to convert the Zulu tribe to Christianity, only to discover this phenomenological practice that the Zulus had been practicing for centuries. Phenomenological simply means working with what reveals itself in the present moment. Essentially, energy is neither created nor destroyed. If there is unacknowledged trauma in family systems — whether it be early deaths, murders, abuse, war, famine, pandemics, etc. — it gets stuck in the family lineage and is passed down from generation to generation. In a constellation, participants represent members of someone’s family system, and what unfolds often reveals hidden dynamics.

We don’t only suffer here on earth from our personal story. We may also carry what was unprocessed from those who came before us.

If you have seen Disney’s Encanto, you may have a better understanding of this concept.

Hellinger identified what he called the “Orders of Love”:

• Belonging — everyone in the system has a right to belong.

• Order — there is a natural order (those who came earlier have precedence).

• Balance — giving and receiving must stay in balance.

During my facilitator training, I met other like-minded women who were just as eager to learn and spend time in the field. Looking back, I can say it was the most profound training I have ever taken part in. We would meet for up to five hours at a time on Zoom to do this training. I would make my tea, get in my comfortable seat, and get absorbed in every aspect of it. Time would literally fly by. It was quite powerful to see the shifts occur even in the zoom squares. I would sometimes leave feeling lighter or sometimes needing extra nervous system support like grounding techniques. Either way, this practice became foundational in the way I began to look at and take in my world and the players in it.

I was able to get a broader perspective on matters, soften the harsh beliefs I once held, and heal on a profound level. I realized that everything belongs — the light and the shadow.

What I witnessed last weekend reminded me again why I love this work. When one woman has the courage to step into her system and look at what has been carried for generations, something shifts for everyone. There is a softening. A remembering. A release. It’s subtle and it’s powerful all at once. We don’t fix anything. We simply allow what wants to be seen to be seen. And in that seeing, there is healing. I left feeling humbled, grateful, and deeply aware that this work is bigger than any one of us. It belongs to all of us.

If you would like to learn more or participate in an in-person (New England) or online family constellation, please comment below. I would love to step into the field with you!

Hi paid subscribers 🤍
A gentle reminder that our New Moon Zoom gathering is happening this Tuesday, 2/17/26 at 12 PM EST.

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I was introduced to his work when I began attending Your Unstoppable Dream Recovery Circle back in 2020. Rudd has a Bible-size book Gene Keys that feels much like a mystical labyrinth of truths waiting to be discovered in one’s own time. What drew me in was the emphasis on contemplation. Not striving. Not achieving. Not performing awakening. Just sitting with something long enough for it to reveal itself. It’s even suggested to have actual fun within the contemplation. Who couldn’t use more fun?

This year I gifted myself the Sage’s Golden Path Retreat , a year-long immersion. I joined hoping to deepen my understanding and to be in community as I process the deaths of my two children last year. It’s said to be Richard’s final live retreat. I’m grateful I said yes. The synchronicity of Gene Key 42.5 is already unfolding. In real time, with the loss of two children, I am learning to live with commitment—and to let go with commitment.

What draws me further into this retreat is the emphasis on somatic transformation and embodied awakening.

This past year, my body has spoken volumes. I’ve released the old “I should” voice and surrendered to what my body needs—even when it looks like nothing from the outside. On a cellular level, though, I am working. Grief moves slowly through the body.

What it often looks like is exhaustion.

Stress has always landed there for me. Instead of fighting it, I’ve learned to befriend it. That feels like wisdom.

The younger mother in me would scramble to find any 30-minute window to lie down, often accompanied by shame and guilt. The crone in me now embraces rest as sacred. My nervous system is sensitive—not only to those close to me but to the collective at large. It requires tending.

My Sphere of Life’s Work is 42.5 (based on my date, time, and place of birth). If you’re new to the Gene Keys, this system uses your birth information to map certain life themes. Each theme has three levels: the Shadow (the reactive pattern), the Gift (the higher quality that emerges), and the Siddhi (the highest expression, almost like grace).

The Shadow-Expectation

The shadow of this Gene Key is Expectation—the grip on how life should unfold. I find myself contemplating what it means to release outcomes without releasing hope. To witness life rather than wrestle it. I’ve been given many opportunities to practice this: growing up in an alcoholic home, my own struggles with alcohol, divorce, relationships that fell away, and now the loss of two children.

Through much of my earlier life I had the audacity to think I had control in these matters. Like trying to moderate my drinking or when I forced my wasband to several different couples therapists over 15 years. I was going to turn every stone before I walked away. I thought I could manage outcomes through effort, people-pleasing, or sheer will. Life has made it abundantly clear: it does not unfold according to my plans.

The Gift-Detachment

The second level is the gift (tree) of this Gene Key — Detachment. Detachment does not mean not caring.

When my children died, something in me processed it differently than I might have years earlier. I had recovery under my belt. My emotional maturity had deepened. Something inside me had shifted. I had been practicing the art of detaching with love with all four of my children for some time. My higher self understood that clinging was not the same as loving. For them. For me.

The divorce and empty nest happened simultaneously in 2022, like a Band-Aid getting ripped off. The family home was sold, and I moved an hour away from our hometown. The geographic shift helped me detach with love. So when I learned this was my Life’s Work, it didn’t feel abstract. It felt front and center.

The two who passed were the hardest to detach from because of their special needs growing up. I was deeply involved in their medical and mental health care. As they became adults, that relationship changed.

Tim beat to his own drum. When he moved out, he embodied his beautiful Leo self and lived life his way. I learned quickly not to offer advice he didn’t ask for.

My daughter Olivia once told me she no longer needed to be carried like in a wheelchair—she just needed me like a crutch, something to lean on occasionally. What a sacred release that was.

Kyle is unfolding in a marvelous way. Even after the deaths of his siblings, he remains grounded, thoughtful, and kind.

Amy is living her dream. She has wanderlust and is embracing it fully as she makes her way in Vail, Colorado. She knows herself. She has her voice. An old soul.

Detachment, for me, has meant loving them without gripping them.

The Siddhi: Celebration

The highest expression of this Gene Key is Celebration.

It is not forced positivity. It cannot be manufactured. It isn’t bypassing pain or pretending things are okay.

It’s spontaneous. Embodied. It arises when the heart remains open even through detachment.

It may be fleeting. It may linger.

For me, celebration looks like witnessing Kyle and Amy step into their lives. It looks like maintaining a relationship through the veil with Tim and Olivia. It looks like sunrise over the ocean, cool sea air in my lungs, dropping into a healing session, practicing yoga, imagining van life, and writing these words.

It is not achievement. It is fruit.

The gift of detachment is my work on this plane.

It’s in the detachment that I can experience the moments of celebration.

What I’m discovering is that my divinity is found in embracing my humanness. I’m not pushing the challenges away but by inviting them in and getting curious to their lessons. I’m grateful you are here.

You know the “ick” feeling you get after scrolling endlessly, losing precious present-moment time.

I fell right in line with the rest. I created content and posted about my sobriety and how I could help others get and stay sober. My intention was pure, and I felt genuinely called to do it. Quickly, though, I became one of thousands doing the same thing. Now the platform is saturated with coaches, therapists, and healers all trying to build followers and sell programs. It’s too much.

My daughter was brutally honest with me more than once, pointing out how often my eyes were on my phone. It was as if I believed my business depended on it. I was its biatch. And oh the dopamine!!

The pressure to “post” and keep up with the next person became overwhelming for my nervous system. My addictive personality easily slid into the endless scroll, trying to keep up with the constant stream of information. It was a firehose of content. The irony? I was teaching others how to manage their nervous systems. I taught about having a sensory “diet”—what you watch, what you eat, who you spend time with. I had no idea I was being zombified myself. To top it off, I didn’t see any growth in my business.

It was consuming me and dulling my life experience. When I finally got quiet and listened to my intuition, I felt its claws in me. I knew it was time to part. As Liz Gilbert says, “Not this.” One of the qualities I truly love about myself is that when I make a decision, I stick with it.

Honestly, the awareness felt very similar to when I stopped drinking in 2016. When I was drinking, I thought, This is what you do. This is what everyone is doing. (Sound familiar, IG and FB users?) My drinking looked just like everyone else’s around me. Hang around big drinkers and you blend right in. I didn’t stand out as having a problem.

One glorious day there was an opening- I knew I had a problem. I didn’t need permission to stop. I didn’t need to hit rock bottom. I just knew. “Not this” anymore.

Once I stopped, it was as if the curtains lifted and I thought, Oh—this is what I’ve been missing. Don’t get me wrong—an alcohol-free life comes with huge challenges, but the gifts definitely outweigh them. I’ve learned so much about myself over the past nine years. They say emotional growth stops at the age you start drinking; for me, that was 15. You can imagine how kaleidoscopic these last nine years have been.

I had a lot of catching up to do on the inside, and that work is still unfolding as I approach 60. It’s beautiful, bold, and super messy at times—but it’s absolutely my calling on this earth. To wake up. To keep recovering parts of myself.

So yes, I’ve survived a year without those two platforms. There is life after IG and FB. My life feels more grounded and spacious. I meet people in person. I hold workshops in person. I hold retreats in person. Connection. I’m grieving in real time—not smearing it online for friends-of-friends-of-friends to like or follow.

Why Substack? Well, there’s simply more freedom here. I love long-form storytelling. I love how my words find who they’re meant to find. I love that the algorithm isn’t hunting me down or numbing me out. I have no desire to scroll a feed. I feel no pressure to post, when the creativity arrives, I write. I find my people and stay connected to those who vibrate at my frequency. The vibe here feels supportive and kind.

I’ll stay as long as my nervous system continues to say, “Hell yes.”

So I’ll leave you with this question:

I’m curious—how do Instagram and Facebook feel in your nervous system right now?

Seriously, my nervous system is benefiting from living alone.

It’s been four years now since I moved to Maine post-divorce. One of the scary parts of leaving a 30-year relationship was wondering what living alone would be like. Will I be okay? Will I be able to manage the finances alone? Who will I share my day with?What if something breaks?(wait I’m the fixer I got this).

Two of my children have bunked up with me here and there, but nothing long-term. My son Kyle had a year-and-a-half layover after college as he figured out his path, but he’s been out since October-ish of 2025. He was an easy roommate to have—completely independent and did his own laundry! Amy was my summer time roomie through college.

I’m feeling zero guilt confessing that I love solo life. I love the freedom of coming and going. I love not having to rush back for anyone. I love not having to COOK. I know—don’t hate me—it’s blissful. I love sleeping nude in fresh clean sheets—by myself. I love walking around naked in my living room (thanks Alanis). I love walking the beach out my front door any time, day or night (clothed). I love that when I put something down, I always know where I left it. I vacation when it’s a full-body yes. If I have to belch or fart, I let it rip! Come on—you know what I’m talking about (if you have alone time, you do). It’s freaking liberating 😀

If I’m sick, I stay in my PJs all day—yes, all day. If I have a cough, I don’t have to cover it or stay quiet about it. I expectorate without holding back. I watch TV shows I like and for as long as I like. If I want to sleep in until 7:30 a.m., I do it. If I want to go to bed at 6:30 p.m., guess what? I do it!! I put on loud music and dance to my favorite tunes! I meet friends for coffee, lunch, or dinner. Maybe all three meals out in one day. I have spaciousness in my calendar—designed that way. I work when I want to work—which is 2 days a week.

Sometimes I have cereal for dinner. I can pick up a book and read when the mood strikes. I paint at the canvas or wall when I get inspired. The only rules are my rules. I seriously think I have found nirvana.

The reason this all feels so amazing to me is that my life was spoken for for many years. Deciding to marry at 24 and then having a family starting at 31, my life felt like it wasn’t mine. Heck, it didn’t feel like mine before that either. All the roles and masks I wore to fit in and belong—living under parents’ rules, then roommates to appease.

Having four children in under five years was the real doozy. How can something so natural as child-rearing be so extremely exhausting and depleting? No one tells you this when you’re starting out. You may hear “toughest job you’ll ever love” or “lifetime sentence with no parole.” You may see the red flags but choose to ignore them because the desire to procreate simply takes over your existence.

I had seven years of infertility. Even then, my life didn’t feel like my own. It was like I was a machine. I was obsessed with becoming a mom. The out-of-body desire to make and raise little humans was all I thought about. My body—and the universe—had other plans.

When the children did start to arrive, it was in a different package than expected. We decided to adopt. Tim was a newborn—four days old—when we met him in Canton, Ohio, back in 1997. The experience was surreal. We were so excited to start our family. He was all love, pure love.

Then Olivia came in 2000, adopted as a newborn from Leadville, Colorado (the highest-elevation city in the USA). More love. Family complete—or so we thought. Kyle was conceived without any help when Olivia was 11 months old. He was born in October 2001 (more love), and his literal Irish twin, Amy, came 361 days later in October 2002 (more love). My heart was full—one child in each of its four chambers.

Needless to say, I got what I wished for: four beautiful children.

It was like a daycare. Even as a stay-at-home mom, it was too much for one person. We needed to hire an au pair to keep our heads above water. Azra from Bosnia was a gem! Tim was diagnosed with autism, and Olivia with failure to thrive. We had doctor appointments, PT, IEP meetings, therapists, etc. The bonus of having the kids so close was that we had built-in playdates.

I remember someone always needing me. In the small moments when no one needed me, I was waiting for someone to need me. I was on-call every night. I was an expert at time management and putting out small fires all day. I was de-escalating meltdowns and hanging tube feedings. I had no clue what Self-care was or how to take some semblance of my life back. I was in it. Survival mode. I loved and tended to them fiercely. I look back and wish I could have enjoyed it more, but I don’t think that could be. The sleep deprivation and lack of balance was alive. It’s the nature of motherhood, and it’s so unfair. It was so hard to enjoy at times. I was depleted with no reprieve. I loved them so deeply and hated the overwhelm at the same time. Those two things existed simultaneously. What’s with that design?

“Someday we’ll know all the answers.” — Thad Litchfield (my dad)

Until then, I’ll enjoy my nirvana. No guilt. I earned it. I’m deliciously giddy about it.
My zen life—created post-divorce. You live, you learn.

The Year of the Fire Horse is already alive and well in my world. It officially begins on February 17, 2026. My timing has always been a smidgen ahead of the collective—like when I asked for a divorce from a 28-year marriage in November 2019, turning my family upside down just before the pandemic turned the entire world upside down.

There was an eerie comfort in that. Like I had company in the unsettled feelings—the uncertainty of life, the loss of dreams. Life was no longer ever going to feel “normal.”

I digress.

I’m embarking on an adventure with my German Shepherd, Thor. Van life. I feel excitement down to my bones! That’s all the evidence I need to take this thing called life on the road. I’m an Aries girl and have honed the skill—when I know, I just know.

That knowing wasn’t always so embodied. I had my work cut out for me after being in a marriage where my voice was rarely taken seriously. I embraced my excitement (because yes, there is excitement post-divorce) and followed the breadcrumbs.

In 2020, I took a Soul Note class run by my friend . In that class, I learned the skill of dropping in—to the soul level—and asking my soul’s desire. That practice was completely new to me. It’s a muscle that can be developed. Amazing right?

Through that class, my heart led me to the ocean. It wasn’t physically far from me, yet dreaming that big felt foreign to this Soul Note newbie. York, Maine was just 50 minutes from where I was living at the time. Family was there, and I had familiarity with the area from years of visiting. I wanted to be within an hour of my adult children so we could easily spend time together.

I had the fortuitous opportunity to buy a condo by the sea after renting there for six months. Since February 2022, I’ve called York home. Beach walks, friends, family, a friendly yoga community, cold-water dipping, retreats, wonderful restaurants, Mount Agamenticus, and countless activities have filled these last four years. It has truly been a magical place to begin a new life after divorce.

With the passing of my two children in 2025, my world was tossed upside down once more. The universe has been sending big, bright neon signs that life is never what we expect. Hence the desire to listen to my soul, my two angels encouraging me, and my two children on earth supporting me.

Having had several years to build resilience and go deeper inward, I’ve developed a much deeper relationship with myself. I am the gatekeeper of my nervous system—and of who and what I let in. The skills I’ve learned over the years have helped keep my channel clear for divine guidance.

I surround myself with like-minded friends who are doing the same. I only have room in my life for people who live with open hearts (iykyk). I’ve been guided and held by a magical, mystical silver grid of love and support—from friends here on earth, ancestors, and light beings above.

So I’m taking that energy with me on the road. And I plan on taking you all with me, too. I’ll be posting adventures, insights, and soul-growth a-ha moments along the way.

Right now, here’s the status:

• Property manager hired

• Van found and named Purple Rain (I don’t care—pretty baby, take me with you!)

• Loan processing

The road is calling and I must go!

I am here to share my story in the hopes that it may land on someone who could benefit. Be the lamp holder. My wish is that the reader may resonate with parts of my story, and that it may help them feel not so alone in what they are carrying.

There is a piece of my codependency that lingers—wanting to help others. But this feels different somehow, because I know that writing itself has healing properties. It is a tool to heal myself. The fact that I’m being vulnerable and posting on Substack is simply a bonus—if someone else benefits, even better.

I know that when I find myself here, I’m always struck by the emotions that bubble up with each read. So whoever finds this itty-bitty essay, thank you for reading and for showing up.

So what am I healing from?

There’s no sugarcoating this one. I’m welcoming a new year—2026—with my feet somehow still solid on this earth, continuing to live on this planet without my two oldest children. This is not about getting sympathy. This is simply sharing the facts. This is my reality.

I lost my daughter Olivia, age 25, in May to suicide. Then, on August 12—on his 28th birthday—my son Tim took his life because he was lost without her. And just like that, there was our family before, and after.

Olivia and Tim May of 2024

The heaviness and complexity of losing two children back-to-back is like nothing I could have ever imagined for my family.

Why so focused on my healing? Because I have two living children: Kyle (24) and Amy (23). Because they need me to be okay. My healing heals them. I didn’t just lose Tim and Olivia, we all did. They lost 2 siblings in 4 months. It’s heartbreaking for a mom to lose but also to witness the sadness in my two living children.

Yes. I believe my mental health and well-being are that important. It matters for children to see their parents okay. Human, yes—I have moments of crying, anger, and messiness. Healing is messy. But I have an opportunity to model what grieving can look like. Maybe it doesn’t always have to look messy. Maybe it can look like hope and love. Maybe it can look like vulnerability as strength. Maybe it will look like one of us being steady while one of us crashes. Maybe it’s laughter and remembrance.

This is time for love in action. It’s okay to not know what is next. We don’t have to have any of the answers.

So here is the healer needing healing.

It’s only been eight months since Olivia died, and only four and a half since Tim. All of my self-care tools that supported me through my divorce feel like spitballs in this situation.

My meditation practice has fallen off. My yoga practice is spotty. I’m eating terribly. Essential oils are sparse. Journaling is nonexistent. I’m not working out. I find it hard to read books for leisure. My sleep is broken when it was once blissful. Follow through is a struggle.

Sometimes I stay in my pajamas all day. Sometimes I talk to no one. Sometimes I spend all day on the phone. Sometimes I binge Netflix.

My memory is shot. Seriously—when remembering even four-digit numbers, I have to recheck several times before they stick for a nanosecond.

I rarely wear makeup because you never know when crying will wash away the mascara and turn me into a raccoon. Why bother?

So what am I doing?

I’m doing two things—because they are simple.

Breathing.
Conscious breathing. Deep belly breaths. Holding at the top, then exhaling slowly. After Tim died, I felt both Olivia and Tim in a dream, and they shared that they are only one conscious inhale away. That’s how I keep them close—through breath. I have that.

Self-Reiki.
Every night, I place my hands on my heart and tend to my sad, aching heart with an unending loop of unconditional love. I have that.

What am I not doing?

One thing.

I’m not drinking alcohol. This is year nine for me. My sobriety is everything. I can’t emphasize enough how having a clear channel to feel the love pouring at me, has held me in my time of need. I have that.

Much love, MaryBeth