Two or three little kids singing in a slight yell:

Twinkle twinkle little star!

Like they are announcing it,

like they’ve discovered it!

Their voices like squeezing a balloon

Their vocal chords reaching for notes, with success I might add!

Like a diamond in the sky

They sing the whole thing. I sit here, on pause, smiling as I hear their muscled voices exclaiming the big question of the morning:

How I wonder what you are?

Bravo kiddos.

When they are done,

there’s no fuss or applause.

They simply move on.

I hear cars on the bridge, the screech of brakes in need of some oil, the elevated train humming by.

I decided I wanted to start going through the bins.

I have these bins from my mom’s house.

We were originally going to put them in storage. I’m glad we didn’t.

They’ve been sitting in the nook by the front door of my apartment.

For a while, I felt their presence looming.

And then, we adapt.

I forget they are there. I throw my jacket on top of them, fold laundry, put ‘bags for donation’ right on top.

The bins are made up of Holiday ornaments, extra tablecloths, the China from her wedding, photo albums, photo albums, photo albums, records, childhood movies. Notes from her shows at the studio she owned for 15 years. It is so neat to see how she organized costumes and run lists for Cinderella and Babes in Toyland, The Wizard of Oz.

The bins are also where I have kept important paperwork for her final taxes, copies of the death certificates, old passports, IDs, computers.

There’s so much and not that much.

I have not been ready to look through the bins until now.

Maybe.

I love that she kept so many photo albums.

We don’t really do that anymore.

There’s no film to be developed. We have access to everything right away. Arguably, we don’t even know what’s in our phone storage.

We take pictures at will, we buy more storage when we need to.

My mom’s photo albums were certainly collecting dust at the house.

I have vague memories of looking through an old vacation together at the dining room table and hearing her tell stories about our trip. Thank goodness because I can’t remember everything from when I was a kid. Can you?

On Sunday, I decided to grab the bin on top and start there.

It wasn’t photo albums—

there was the old passport and some calendars,

notebooks that I had pulled from her bedside table.

I opened the calendar. 2017.

Each day, each week- she collected moments instead of appointments.

With her signature sweet little hand drawn heart she would write:

Mom made a delicious dinner.

My niece helped me pack. She’s a warrior.

I spoke to the neighbor for a half hour walking Lulu.

In the back, the pages for Notes were filled with ‘morning pages’, written in afternoons and evenings before bed.

I read a few.

July 2017. That hit me. It’s July now.

I hear my mom’s voice as I read her words.

I hear the things that she's navigating, struggling with, the way she’s putting together the pieces of her life to better understand where she is and how she might move forward.

9 year ago— she’s thinking about a lot of the same things that I am.

I feel deep sadness wishing that we could have these conversations, about all of this, now.

That we could have continued to weave together her past and future with mine.

We should have had more time. We were supposed to have more.

She’s my mom.

There were chapters that still needed to be written,

to be danced together.

My therapist said, ‘you were robbed.’

And my heart dropped.

It’s true!

I was robbed of time. Cancer sucks.

She was 65 years old and so alive, so full of hopes, and dreams, and desires.

She had plans for the future.

I read her journal and I heard her voice.

It made me deeply sad, and feel deeply close to her.

I put that bin away when it was time for me to go to sleep.

I think I’ll start with the photo albums this week.

What do we do with all the life that’s left behind?

What do you do with the material things? How do we honor these things? I’m grateful to have it to sort through it all. Even though it’s a lot and I’ll cry. I’ll also remember my childhood and see her childhood. These pictures I have of my mom as a little girl, of my grandmother as a little girl, my brother as a baby, my cousin and aunts, my dad when he became a dad—- it’s so special to look through.

Somehow, we make our way back to gratitude.

I’m so grateful to continue to learn from and about my mom.

What a special person she is.

I’m sitting at a cafe near the East River, overlooking the Williamsburg Bridge

Bear (my pup) is soaking in the sun

a glass of french white wine

a snack plate: crisps, almonds, olives

The weather is showing off. It’s sunny in the way that presses into your skin. I’m not wearing SPF (oops!) and I’m not sure I want the tan line of my top, but the gentle breeze reminds me of my mom. It’s sweet and just the right amount of cooling.

I look up and the water has that magical sparkle as the sun dances on the current.

I started to read a book that was gifted to me for my birthday—

as I did, I had to stop and pull out my computer to write

to capture

to jot the moment down.

I am happy right now, content, in a moment of simple bliss.

I took yoga, I’m seeing a play later, I got to hug a friend.

The last six months have been busy and wild in a way that I have been asking the universe for—

I saw an old journal entry where I asked for this.

Amazing how the universe does that, listens and conspires when we are ready.

I have wanted to feel useful, to be busy (as in hours in the day, multiple projects, what’s a day off— that kind of busy)

and for the past 6 months, that’s what it has been.

I love getting to play

I love projects that feel like growing

I love pursuing excellence both in myself and in a room.

I’ve been continuing with therapy and it’s taking me to some new places.

My therapist continues to hold space for my grief and for deep feeling when it comes— but now we are in something new, I feel…

We are looking at patterns of behavior

I’m recognizing where my boundaries are and the importance of honoring them, maybe for the first time in my life.

The universe, in it’s playfulness, has gifted me opportunities to try this lesson on IRL, as if to say:

“Ok, you want to get to know anger and your limits? Try this on.”

I’m proud of how I’ve stepped up to the plate for myself.

HOW DO I WANT TO LIVE THIS LIFE?

This!

This question repeats in my head and finds it’s way into my journal entries often.

What is worthy and worth my time and energy?

How do I want to spend my days?

What does it feel like when I’m living life on my own terms?

What do I want to feel?

With whom?

This video came up today on my phone- this is the picture associated with the moment:

3 years ago

My mom and I

Portland, Maine

She wanted to go see the lighthouses.

I went with her and frankly didn’t realize how important that trip was to her.

Since we were kids she would talk about getting a ‘winnebago’ and driving from Miami to the tip top of Maine to see the lighthouses. It was this big vacation I have multiple memories hearing about, but we never did it.

2023, she came to visit in NY and we went to Maine for the weekend.

I never heard the FULL story, I’ve wondered if there was more to it.

When we got to the lighthouse, she cried. That’s the video.

She was so moved by the moment, that her happiness and maybe her sadness too poured from her.

It was the sweetest thing.

I thought I learned that day, how important it is not to postpone life.

In the moment— I was grateful we had that time together. I was happy she was happy. I made a ‘note to self’, don’t let it take so long to make these kinds of moments happen.

It wasn’t until she died that that lesson sits in my consciousness with more clarity and urgency than I could have ever realized then.

No really, do not postpone life.

It’s happening right now.

Not later. Now.

Experience deep presence.

Find a way in and back to yourself.

Now.

What on earth are we waiting for?

I continue to remind myself:

I get to choose how I spend my time and who with— in work and in play.

I get to relish in the moment— whether it’s sitting on a perfect afternoon with a glass of wine, or at the bliss of being able to work hard on something I love.

We are here.

What a gift.

I’m updating my messaging to the universe—

I want to be used, I want to feel productive and busy and—

I also want spaciousness to sit to write,

to bask in the sun and the sweet breeze

to continue to integrate and live the lessons I have learned from my life

knowing that life will continue to throw me new challenges, new lessons, new opportunities for growth.

Cheers to living a life that’s full and embodied and absolutely delightful.

Grief as the continued song, the finishing of their dance.

Grief as lived legacy.

I heard something this morning about ‘reframing loss’.

The idea that we don’t lose our people, we had a certain amount of time with them.

For me, using this reframing, might look like—-

On my 40th birthday when I get sad that my mom isn’t here—

I shift my perspective and say, but I got 38 birthdays with her.

I appreciate the idea.

And, it doesn’t totally sit with my experience.

Here’s why.

It’s true that I got the time I did with my mom.

I am so grateful—

that she raised me and taught me,

loved me and supported me.

Took me to Epcot, made us pancakes, showed me love personified,

taught me to dance.

She also wasn’t here, physically, for my 40th birthday. She’s not here, physically, for all the things that I’m thinking about right now.

That’s sad.

And while I’m not suggesting we disappear into sadness.

While I can appreciate that the depths of grief can feel like I may never get out. I’ve had those moments.

I want to be able to hold myself in the moment and in the truth of the experience that I’m in.

All of it.

Yes, 38 birthdays and years as her daughter here—

I’m grateful and it makes me smile to think back.

That’s a beautiful tool. A beautiful place to plug into.

AND I miss her deeply, I wish she was here. There is so much I want to talk to her about.

Sometimes that comes up as deep sadness that pours of out of my eyes and out of my heart.

Sometimes, it makes me tired and want to stay in the sweetness of my bed.

It makes me ache for connection, resent having to ask, rageful at the injustice of her not being here.

No one teaches us how to do grief, I’m not sure we can be fully prepared.

And, I have learned that I can hold myself.

My mom dying actually teaches me that.

It’s the saddest thing and… I’m here.

I still here even as I’m learning how.

That points to capableness and resilience.

So, while I understand the significance of being able to focus on her ALIVE and my growing up with her.

I have had the experience of my therapist point me towards her aliveness as a way to interrupt my focusing on her death—

For a little while, my last image of her was something I was getting fixated on. My therapist directly asked me to think about her alive—

I told him about a recent memory of her and I dancing together.

I smiled, I wept.

He said, remember that when you get stuck.

So powerful.

Alongside that, I also have felt the benefit of not running from the depth of my feelings.

Developing tools like this redirection gave me respite and oxygen, light in the midst of moments that felt/ or feel dark.

And I think, just as important are the tools to allow myself the space and grace to cry and feel deeply sad.

Tools are important and we don’t just come with all of them, I had to learn them out of necessity, survival and a real desire to live as fully and whole as I can.

• asking for help

• remembering gratitude

• remembering them alive

• moving our bodies

• breathing deeply

• meditating

• writing

• community

• being with friends

• creating rituals

• creating sacredness around grief and love

• establishing boundaries

• therapy or grief counseling

• talking about it

• allowing ourselves to be present with whatever is present

• music

• crying

• feeling

• dancing

• good food

• a good trip

• a warm bath

• family, friends and support

• permission to laugh, loveand feel joy

• breathing techniques

• and and and…

Grief and grieving is not just the sadness and the missing—

It’s also the continued relationship with my mom

It’s the continued love,

continued learning,

the embodied legacy that I get to live on,

with her.

Sitting in my mom’s car in the hospital parking lot.

A parking lot I hadn’t known before and now had preferences about with regard to where I parked.

I sat in her car, AC on, music off, phone in hand—

I cried. It’s so unfair.

I wrote it down in my notes app.

And then it needed a title the way notes in the app ask for a title.

My insides got squeamish as I wrote Lessons from Cancer.

I hated the implication that this was something I had to learn from.

That there would be a point where I would be looking back— and my mom wouldn’t be here and I needed to remember things.

I had another note: Mom’s wishes

Another with Doctor’s notes.

I had a journal so I could write things down with a pen and page. That made things real somehow- and I can scribble faster than I type on my phone.

At home, we had a calendar in the kitchen for chemotherapy appointments and visits from friends.

Which was the day for detox after chemotherapy?

Who was making bone broth?

When did I have work pending in New York— would I go or cancel it?

If I was gone, who was going to be here?

I scheduled my mom’s care like a mom probably schedules play dates.

My mom was a little self conscious about this— but we knew it was both for me and for her.

I didn’t want her to be alone.

I didn’t want her to be alone in case she needed to be taken to the hospital, or needed an alternative food from the grocery store.

I didn’t want her to have to manage my grandma by herself.

Nothing to over exert and also, try not to take away her agency— especially while she was feeling well enough.

Recently, I’ve started to make videos and post each lesson online.

Each one allows me a moment to consider and articulate what it was for me at that time.

How does that lesson continue to show up and how might I integrate what felt so clear at the time?

There’s a big through line of needing people and gratitude around those relationships.

It’s so much to ask of our friends and family.

Especially when they have not been through losing a parent. Losing a parent too young (for me and for her).

Before my mom died, I didn’t know.

Sometimes I wish my people just knew when to come over, like they could intuit it. That they could literally read my mind and anticipate when I need a hug.

That it wasn’t part of the requirement that I keep asking for support and companionship through my grief.

Actual face time.

It’s not a realistic ask, and it is my responsibility to figure out how to keep asking.

That’s hard sometimes.

It’s not even 2 years ago, and yet… it’s already been almost 2 years.

In normal life, a lot happens in 2 years.

I’m finding that writing and talking about my mom, grief, life, becoming, any and all of it is really healing for me.

So, I’ll continue to do that.

I do hope that it resonates with someone coming along for the ride.

That’s all for now.

xo

I forgot I was driving.

I handed away my agency and voice in service of people pleasing, not being disruptive and real desire to not be alone.

Chasing connection with others, with achieving goals, with holding up some image of who I was supposed to be— disconnected me from the center of myself.

Sure, I didn’t stop being me but I also wasn’t fully reaping the benefits of my own presence.

Making new friends, accomplishing things, moving life forward and not realizing that there was a hole in the boat.

One of my teachers and dear friends says, you are the energy people walk into.

And that hit differently on my birthday.
I don’t have to perform, I don’t have to be anything I’m not.

In fact, the more I can be myself, with all of myself, the more I feel like myself.
The more I can really see and feel the life around me,
The people around me,
The love that goes so generously both ways.

My heart grew at my birthday gathering—
I could feel it pressing up against the basket of my lungs, on its neighbor my liver, asking my diaphragm to breathe deeper so it might feel and express more.

My dad says he felt like 40 was halftime, like intermission.

I want to give myself a real chance and commitment to integrate what I’ve learned and experienced in my life so far.

We always have options to begin again.

Every breath, every moment. Each new day. We CAN look around and choose something different.

I was going to say, I don’t think everything changes all at once. But life has taught me it actually can.

Life can knock you out. It has certainly taken me to my knees.

And then, I got up.

And I got up again.

I have never experienced half time in a locker room but I’ve seen Ted Lasso and Friday Night Lights, so I’ll use that as my template.

Jersey smeared with dirt, sweaty and breathless. A little weak in the knees.

I sit near my locker, grab some water. I catch my breath, I know there’s more of the game left. And I love this game, I love the people I get to play it with. I know that I have to dip deep. We are not done.

And then, it hits.

I got this.

I am resilient and strong and capable.

My heart is open and raw and full of love.

Don’t hold back, keep moving forward and for goodness sake have a good time out there. Play! Joyful determination.
Dim the lights, cue music and get back out there.

Crossed my sports and stage metaphors— it’s all one.

Thank you for the birthday love.
Onward.

I’ve done morning pages on and off forever.

3 pages of writing first thing in the morning.

Writing has always been personal for me.

If you ask friends of mine from college, the early days—

A coffee shop with a journal is often where you can find me.

It’s bliss to sit with a coffee and let my pen dance on the page.

I love being somewhere and letting my imagination wander.

Writing without thinking, allowing my thoughts to pour.

Reading a book.

Oh, the days where there were no phones and you could just disappear into lined pages and printed words.

When I was in 5th grade, I joined a writing workshop with my English teacher. She invited a few students to come to learn more about writing stories.

Thinking back, what an extraordinary thing for such young people.

I remember her patio with a screen.

There’s a blurry memory of grass, a fan overhead, maybe snacks?

Her handwriting on the pages I had written.

I’m also finding that writing is making me confront myself.

The more I write and articulate, the more I see where I am in alignment or out of it.

In the last 3 years, my life has changed due to loss. I have changed. My perspective has changed.

I know that intuitively—

writing and speaking it out loud is helping me to understand the nuance.

It gives me a flashlight to places unknown.

I don’t write here about my divorce a ton.

I come from divorced parents who loved each other a lot.

Part of it is that it involves another human being and I feel protective over that.

Part of it is that when I think about it, it’s like I cannot believe that it is also a part of my story.

The Pandemic, that happened to everyone.

Then, separation and divorce.

As I’m getting my feet back under me— my mom’s cancer diagnosis.

Dealing with my divorce and all that it implies was put on pause.

Not that it didn’t matter, not that I didn’t about it—

because it does matter and I did think about it.

It was just that my mom’s cancer was centerstage.

I haven’t considered this until right now— oof writing—

Maybe I would be more comfortable telling the comeback story if that’s where I was:

Yea, I got divorced. AND then—

drumroll, fireworks—

I found this new love story!

Let me share my new experience with love after loss.

But that’s not where I’m at.

The other morning I found this loop in my mind— grief on grief on grief…

I think a lot of about needing to expand our capacity to hold more than one thing to be true.

Nothing is just one thing.

There’s more nuance than that. More layers, more complexity.

There can be loss and growth, love and grief, light and dark—

my past holds wisdom and my future beckons my courage forward.

This desire to articulate myself is about figuring out that expansion.

It’s a way to sort out the last few years and my daydreams of a future.

I’ve said this before—

My mom’s death has taught me so much about life.

About:

how I want to live mine,

what is important,

what we prioritize,

who we prioritize.

I am committed to staying tethered to the perspective that we have this one life, this one moment.

That thing we are waiting to do? We should do it.

Scared to date? You can handle it.

Want to live with a heart that’s open? Know the risk that you might get hurt and do it anyway.

You can handle it. And you know it.

Be brave.

Arms open wide.

Keep dancing with life.

Funny, it always comes back to dance.

First of all, I’m not an expert.

Even as I offer my experience, I want to be clear I’m not an expert but rather someone who is curious about a relationship with Grief.

“It’s the other side of love.”

I’ve heard that one.

Like Joy and Sadness are connected in In and Out, the Pixar Movie? Maybe.

In my experience—-

Grief can be a pathway to love. Love can be a pathway to Grief.

It’s like they hold hands at the vulnerability required for both.

The more we expand our capacity to hold Grief, the more capacity we have for joy, love, and expansion.

I believe that.

When we expand, we expand all of it.

Gabor Maté writes about this in The Myth of Normal:

(paraphrasing from my own notes)

You can’t bring one [emotion] down without bringing them all down. So a repression of one emotion can become a chronic disconnect from the rest and from self!

Someone who is sensitive may feel more pain AND in feeling deeply they also, if supported, become more resilient and more creative.

Grief and deep feeling are a gift and a curse in this way.

Grief is not fun. It hurts and it’s heavy.

But not feeling it, dampens the rest of our human experience.

Even our capacity to love, which is what we all come into the world primed for— love and connection.

What do I mean by Capacity?

Our ability to hold our experience. To hold: to sit with, to feel, to acknowledge, to not run away from.

Capacity is my ability to tap into the felt sense of my experience and then allow myself to feel it.

Maybe resilience is about our bounce back.

Sometimes this companionship with Grief (Francis Weller) feels like a superpower and other times it’s just heavy.

What do I do with all this feeling?

With the love that’s still here?

Where do I put it? Where is it safe? What if it leaves, again?

So, what is Grief?

I’m not sure I have the perfect definition.

My felt sense of it is that it’s about expansion and connection even if its due to loss.

Grief is showing me how much more I have within me, how strong I am.

It’s reminding me that this life is the one we have and keeping me clear on that lesson so that I learn it.

I feel lucky that her life is the one I learn from.

So here’s a question for you: where does Grief show up in your life?

Do you tend to run from it?

What would it look like to feel into it?

It doesn’t have to look like anything I have described. We all have our own way, and we each have to find our own way.

I don’t think we can tell each other how to grieve, for how long, or what it’s meant to look like.

Maybe curiosity is a place to begin—

Where is Grief present for me? And when she shows up, where do I put her? Where do I go? What might she teach me if I let her come out for air?

I got back from Bali and have jumped into an abundant/ when it rains it pours/ Busy schedule.

Dancing on Broadway, running auditions, running rehearsal, learning something new in rehearsal… making time to reconnect with friends, not having a day off, time with the pups, getting a little sick— kicking that in the butt—

it’s been nonstop

and wonderful and exhausting

There was a moment at rehearsal, I arrived and suddenly “oh, you’re here.”

Grief waiting for me in the wings.

Grief seemed to look at me like a kid whose parent was late for pick up in middle school.

You forgot about me.

But I hadn’t!

I’d just not had a a moment to land— now that I was back home, back where your ashes are, back doing the very thing you taught me to do.

Back to living alone— nobody around for coffee, no sleepy hellos in the morning, no collective Om to start the day.

I’m okay.

I’ll wait for the 10 minute break, then I’ll go breathe (maybe cry a little), I’m okay. I see you, I’ll be right with you.

That 10 minute break seemed to never come, I danced practically holding my breath, feigning smiles, torn between genuine happiness and expected sadness.

What’s true?

I did cry a little on the break. Friends witnessed me. I appreciated that.

What’s also true?

I didn’t really let go.

And the rest of that release is still waiting, I can feel it.

My schedule slows down next week- and my system knows it.

Grief is isolating and activating.

As many lessons as I’m learning— it can be relentless.

I miss my mom, I miss being in partnership.

I want her to see me dance, I want to talk to her about things I’m thinking about. I want her at my birthday in May. I want the next chapter of our relationship back. We were supposed to have more time. I feel frustrated and angry.

Where do I go to scream?

It scares me what could be on the other side of a scream.

I have a persistent thought about letting that OUT.

But where and how?

A scene:

A group of people. Fancy dress. Wooden floors. Bookcases and velvet drapes. Another time. Energy is lively but tempered. People seem happy to be there.

A woman in green, center stage. A moment alone in the midst of the crowd. Scanning the room for nothing in particular.

The light switches— down light just on her— the rest of the room dark. Guests in suspended animation.

She screams. There’s no sound but there’s no doubt she’s screaming. She stops to breathe. Takes a deep inhale and screams again. Maybe tears.

She collects herself but only for a moment.

Lights switch back on.

Someone puts a hand in hers, she looks at him and smiles. Not a big smile but genuine.

He wonders if she’s okay. Even if there are tears, it’s like they are invisible. She takes his empty glass, kisses him and walks out.

He watches her go. After a moment, he exhales.

Nothing is one thing.

In the midst of growing and learning and creating and joy… there’s loss and deep sadness and anger.

It’s of the navigating now. Part of the dance.

I exhale.

It’s time for rehearsal again. Here we go.

What a sentence.

I’m mentoring a Sacred Fig 200 hour teacher training. Spending time with a whole group of new people, along with two other mentors and three faculty. It is a special thing to be part of creating an experience for people. I’m learning a lot.

It is magic to see a group of people moving and breathing together. What makes it magic isn’t just the syncing up of breath and heartbeats and bodies— though I do find that really beautiful…

It’s considering the fact that all of these people (myself included) have made an effort to get all the way to Bali.

Each one, like all of us, carries struggles, challenges that they’ve gone through or are going through, heartbreak, stories of resilience, dreams of transformation, visions of who they are becoming, vulnerabilities—

And looking at people like the layered, complicated, amazing beings that they are really moves me.

There’s a permission on retreat and on training- in my experience- to allow myself to open. To stop holding on tightly. To be seen, to be where I am. To have time and space to cry if I need to, to develop strength, to find a new perspective, to see new beautiful landscapes all around while also navigating my own internal landscape.

What am I feeling?

How do I make room for all of myself?

What are tools I have for embodiment and presence?

What about for regulating my own nervous system?

It’s beautiful to witness and I’m happy to be here.

As soon as I write that down, I think to myself-

well, to protect yourself Natalie.

I hear my therapist saying “Can you be compassionate with yourself instead of judgmental?”

Yes, I would respond.

I have felt this judgement in myself recently—

Don’t be the sad girl.

And, don’t ignore your grief.

I didn’t go to a holiday party this week.

I did want to see my friend. I even started to get ready—

I baked cookies,

I bought wine to take with me.

And then, this feeling of not wanting to have to socialize and be with new people came over.

More specifically, the fear that my grief wouldn’t have somewhere to exhale. The acknowledgement of the energy required to be in a social setting… So I gave myself permission not to go.

Someone might say, “You gotta get out there”, “Connection is good for you."

I don’t disagree.

AND I also know that listening to myself is important.

I felt relieved as soon as I decided not to go.

So, on the one hand, I’m over here judging myself for not being more social.

More specifically, for being so deeply sad.

I felt the deepest waters within me rumbling with grief.

I want to be social and connected, joyful and buoyant.

I could feel an internal weight that kept me at home.

Did I let myself feel into that sadness? Not really.

There’s the other hand, judgement around not allowing myself to pour.

I think I’ve been afraid to go back down there.

To go knock on the door where grief sits patiently waiting, loving me and beckoning to be in my company—

To sit with her.

That’s the truth.

I’ve been afraid to crack my heart open and to feel the loss again.

I know it’s true because tears are streaming down my face,

my exhale accompanied with a laugh like a bubbling of recognition,

the weight in my system softened.

Hi Mom.

Now in the holidays, the air seems potent with her.

In this moment, as I’m writing—

it’s like I can hear her “Hi bungi! My beautiful daughter. I love you I love you I love you.”

The magic of the holidays

the Christmas lights

the sweetness in the air

being with family—

all of it is wrapped up in the energy of her spirit.

Delight and magic and love.

So where does this leave me today?

I can be more generous with myself in these tough moments of the holidays. Thanksgiving, Christmas, even the New Year and then her birthday in January… there is so much back to back.

I will think of something I can do today that connects me to her.

I’m still dancing every morning— but maybe something else too.

I will take my therapist’s advice and create a moment for myself on Christmas that is for the two of us. I will organize it and plan it in advance so that I have somewhere to land intentionally and deliberately.

I’ll probably make pancakes, have some hot chocolate and maybe some champagne with pomegranate seeds.

I will dance.

I will hug my family very tightly.

I will wear Christmas pajamas.

I will give thanks for this year.

I will pray.

I will not forget that grief connects me to her and even if it’s expression looks and feels like sadness— what it is, is love.

I felt joy start to visit and subconsciously, I don’t think I wanted to disrupt that.

Someone said to me recently, ‘the second year is harder’.

Time is strange.

I have started to feel the momentum of living. The things I’ve been pouring energy into are taking shape. My curiosity giving way to more understanding and fluency.

It’s all just beginning. And it feels good.

In a way, I’ve taken an unintentional step away from grief. Or not from grief, but maybe grieving.

Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to write.

I have felt pockets of presence, connection, and play. And I’ve wanted to stay tethered to that.

I know rationally that sitting with grief— actually I know this deeply— doesn’t take away from joy.

Rather, the possibility that I feel in the air is, in part, because of the grief I have held.

Life is fleeting. Moments really are precious. Things come to an end.

It’s acknowledging this truth that drops us into deeper presence.

That’s the dance, right?

Keeping our hearts supple to the impermanence of it all AND allowing for joy when it comes to visit.

In my life, profound loss woke me up.

I wonder how we keep our eyes open to the life that’s in front of us—

Without it taking something life changing?

What practices — there are many— allow us to stay connected to ourselves, the people in our lives and the way we spend our time?

Therapy

Deep breaths

Dance Parties

Yoga

Writing

Cooking

Looking up while you walk

Doing meaningful work

Designing your life

The second year is harder.

As we head into the holiday, I want to be mindful to not distract myself from what needs to be felt while also loving the sweet connections that will surround me.

Even now, in this moment, I can feel myself resist really considering the holiday without her.

Like my nervous system is protecting me.

My imagination jumps to the day after Thanksgiving—

Brunch with family.

A movie.

A fruit salad in a big bowl with flowers painted on it.

Pancakes and bacon that we get into before the meal has been served.

Cuban coffee in sweet little cups.

The way she would make each scoop of espresso an offering to honor the people we’ve lost.

I wonder if it’s harder because it’s the new normal.

Year one is surviving it.

Now I have to do it all again…without her.

She said, “I know you’ll be sad, but try to be happy too.”

I will.

I’ll stay in the dance with grief—

and remind myself, it’s okay if joy wants to lead sometimes.

An insight just now…

The truth is—

all of this joy, this becoming, these opportunities,

these serendipities have her delight and mothering all over them.

So, maybe letting joy lead is really letting her lead.

Allowing her to keep teaching me the way forward.

That cracks my heart open,

waters my eyes,

and makes me smile.

Try it out.

Let me know what you think.

So you can take it with you—

Take a moment to ground yourself.

Find a root and a lift.

Awareness to your heart (find your heartbeat)

Inhale, heart

Exhale, pelvic floor I am

Inhale, crown I know

Exhale, below your navel I feel

Inhale, third eye I see

Exhale, above your navel I do

Inhale, throat I speak/ I listen

Exhale, heart I love/ I am loved

LOOP as many times as you like :)

Sometimes, just that thought makes me feel paralyzed.

I needed time this past year—

to grieve

to learn how to ask for help

to find community

to cry and cry and pour.

I’ve reflected and turned over the happenings of my life in an intentional way.

I’ve considered and been curious.

I feel open and vulnerable— a little raw some days.

I feel the desire to put my foot on the gas.

To create and do and be in the world.

Taking time to heal is important. In fact, self actualization and embodiment, deep healing and deep knowing is the work of a lifetime.

Recently— that familiar urgency, that spark, the whisper to move forward has started to come to the forefront.

The rev of my internal engines as I set about creating something new.

Why then do I feel paralyzed?

What’s true is— I don’t have a fully formed idea that organizes me.

I look into the vast potential of my future where anything is possible and I forget how to walk forward.

In the past, my north star was “I want to be on Broadway.”

It dictated everything. It was my compass.

It was the lens through which I made decisions, identified who I am, and how I spent my time.

For a while, looking into the future felt the same as ‘leaving my mom behind.’

I know rationally that’s not true. But it felt true.

Looking towards the future, put me closer to the 6 month mark… the one year mark… without her.

I didn’t want to look that far. Frankly, my nervous system didn’t allow it.

I was in a class this year—

my teacher said ‘just imagine, it’s play, there’s nothing wrong, you’re safe, I’m here with you’ as we did a vision exercise.

All of that wonderful support and still my eyes watered. My nervous system in freeze and fight.

The part of me that wanted to step forward and willingly participate confused by my body putting my whole foot on the brake.

It felt like I was trying to move a mountain.

All that was being asked was for me to daydream. To play.

my teacher and friend, Matt Corker

Now- I want to play. I want to daydream. I want to create.

That’s a real step forward. I’ll celebrate that.

Maybe… it’s a sign that I’m integrating my mom and my grief into my life and into my being.

She comes with me.

So my fear of leaving her behind can let go.

I take grief and love and healing and possibility forward with me.

You know the thing about making an omelette, right?

You can prepare as long as you want—

chop all the things,

have all the ‘mise en place’,

think about the kind of omelette you want to make.

Eventually?

If you want an omelette, you have to crack the eggs and throw it in a pan.

So… what do I actually do?

I’m enrolled in the inaugural cohort to be certified in the BECOMING YOU methodology developed by Dr Suzy Welch at NYU Stern.

My dad recommended Suzy’s book Becoming You this summer.

I read it.

Did the first assessment, The Values Bridge.

It was like lighting a match.

My results felt like a compass. I felt pulled to learn more.

My reaction to this quote is an invitation to take hold of your life.

Don’t waste it.

The reminder we only have one.

There’s permission to dream and take chances. Carpe Diem.

Suzy highlights the word PLAN.

“What is it you PLAN to do…”

*light bulb*

It is necessary to dream and to give yourself permission— AND without a plan, you risk living a life by default instead of design.

Dr. Welch’s tools are absolutely about—

self actualization

self knowledge

self study

AND it’s about curating the tools and knowledge you need to make choices that get you '“in the arena” of your life pointed in the direction that is most aligned with who you are and what’s important to you.

THAT is exciting stuff.

I love the work of embodiment and self knowledge.

I am lit up by conversations around dreams and permission.

I appreciate the friends and family that will reflect me back to me, that will generously challenge my thoughts so we can clarify together.

I want to live fully expressed.

I want to be the author and the experiencer of my life.

I want to wake up in love with a life I’ve created intentionally, eyes open, not left to chance.

I want to leave room for magic too.

I think serendipity is the universe’s reminder that she’s conspiring in my favor.

I want to do this work for myself AND— I want to create spaces that help other people do it too.

For now, I think that requires some bravery on my part.

I need to figure out my life practice and start practicing it.

What are the things I want to do?

Who do I want to be?

What is my plan?

Can I step forward into it imperfectly and full heartedly?

Cheers to next steps.

Foot gently on the gas.

and yes—

to making the damn omelette. :)

You walk into your house in the evening and the lights aren’t on.

This is not the set up for a scary story. It’s just a random day.

You innocently forgot to leave the kitchen light on before you left for the day. So… your home is dark.

Interesting that immediately the dark can bring up thoughts of something scary or bad about to happen.

You stand in the threshold of the doorway.

To enter or not to enter?

In this scenario… there’s no real decision to make. You enter!

It’s your house, you live here. Enter.

You walk into the apartment, you know where the light switch is, you flip it on and voila you can see!

Home sweet home.

Where there was darkness, now light.

So simple. Done and done.

In our hearts, emotions and self— this idea of venturing forward into the dark spaces is harder.

Dark spaces within us might hold:

• experiences from childhood

• memories of a broken heart

• there may just be moments from life that feel to uncomfortable, to unknown, too sad to risk a visit

Understandably, we stay away.

It’s safer where the lights are already on.

Need to say: I’m not an expert and I do this work alongside a therapist— which I find incredibly helpful. Therapy serves as a mirror. You aren’t alone. That person IS an expert and can help hold the light and dark with you.

Highly recommend.

IF the lights stay off (within us)—

The shadows continue to dance on the walls.

You know that there’s a room that you don’t go into.

You may even take the long way so you don’t even go near the door.

I’m not insinuating it’s as easy as flipping a light switch on a wall.

I am, however, inviting that once we do turn the lights on—

the possibility to heal, shift, open and grow become truly available.

There’s a lesson here about whether we are able to tap into the unconditional truth that we are going to be okay.

How can we find a way to give ourselves a sense of safety—

so that we can be brave to venture forward.

Even if we know before we walk in that it may come with

crying

and anger

and a multitude of emotions we may not quite understand at first.

Imagine—

In that room where your childhood heartbreak is—

there is a version of you that did your absolute best.

That little you survived and adapted and now you’re you!

And you’re amazing.

Perfect in your imperfections,

walls and all.

What a gift, that we might be able to meet ourselves and say,

‘I got it from here. You did good and I love you.

I’m taking us the rest of the way.’

Can you imagine taking that weight from a little kid?!

Can you imagine telling a little kid that—

they are okay

worthy

and did their best.

They are loved

and they are safe.

We wouldn’t HESITATE when we think of a little kid—

so why hesitate when that little kid is you?

Not easy.

Maybe a journey best done with support and guidance.

But a worthy endeavor to heal and to turn all the lights on.

Floppy hat and an umbrella overhead to protect me from the sun.

I loved sitting there without headphones, without distraction.

Just me and the sea—

The sound of the waves, the dazzle of the sunshine dancing on the water, the sound of people chatting, of glasses clinking together, the music from the restaurant gently playing behind me.

I started to write.

Not knowing where I would go but listening to a call to get on the page.

This is a piece of that writing…

Even though I hate to say it-

I have been through a lot of loss in the last 10 years.

But I hadn’t recognized Grief until recently.

I hadn’t sat with her.

Hadn’t gotten to know her.

Hadn’t asked Grief to sit at my table and live in my house.

I hadn’t realized she’d always been somewhere inside of me, waiting to be expressed.

I believe Grief is related to Love.

I think we all come to know that.

Where Love expressed feels free and playful, connected, delighted—

Grief expressed feels like depth, vitality, sorrow, longing and connection.

I think they hold hands when they meet in the present.

In their meeting they can make us feel alive.

All systems go.

Lights on and glimmering.

Feeling the interconnectedness of things.

The world— here for experiencing, laid out to deepen our own awareness so that we might know ourselves better.

So we might expand our compassion and see each other as extensions of us.

Grief unexpressed sits patiently, in tension.

She yearns for a space to be held.

She feels trapped, on the bench.

She wrestles against everything, trying to be good, to appease.

Grief begs to be heard

but doesn’t want to disrupt.

She understands why you’ve looked the other way— you have a life to lead, and goals to meet and people to know!

She also knows that it’s a matter of time.

Because life and nature seek to create balance-

Light and dark.

Love and grief.

Joy and sadness.

Up and down.

Inhale and exhale.

We’re not taught to speak Grief’s name.

No one wants us to grieve deeply because—

• it would be too sad

• it might pull us away from our life

• it might feel heavy to us and those around us

• it might come with a short fuse, confusion, depression.

It’s too much to carry.

Why would we lean towards a dark space?

When we’re little and someone dies, we hear:

They outgrew their body.

They’re dancing in the stars.

They’re reunited with loved ones.

It is a natural part of life.

Though it sometimes comes too soon or too sudden.

Grieving is movement forward.

It’s a verb.

It’s doing and processing.

It’s feeling and acceptance.

It moves.

It pours.

It opens.

It teaches.

Denial of its expression—

that is where melancholy and feeling stuck step in.

If we stop the wind from blowing,

our sails starve for air to move the boat.

In any direction.

I’ve really allowed myself intentional time with Grief.

I’ve allowed her to take the reins

when I feel her start to wash over me.

What I’ve found is this:

Grief is my way to her.

It is my way back to the wholeness of my heart and of my being.

Love without Grief stays in the past.

It’s our memories—

it’s being in the studio.

Hearing her say “Hello, my beautiful daughter” with a twinkle in her voice.

It’s a call at midnight on my birthday.

Her beautiful hands. The sweet tilt of her head.

If I lean toward Grief,

I open a pathway to a future with her.

I walk up to Grief’s room in my lungs—

When I accept that she’s not here,

Grief hands me the key.

The door opens.

Inhale.

There she is.

Exhale.

Love and Grief meeting

so I can truly experience her in the here and now.

It’s—

a moment while I dance,

the sun shining a little brighter,

the sweet breeze,

the opening of my heart.

It makes my eyes teary with love,

it makes my heart giggle with delight.

And I know that delight is her— because it was her essence.

All of a sudden, it’s me and my mom

sitting here, right now,

with my computer,

on a chair under an umbrella

facing the sea.

So,

I’ve invited Grief to stay.

I’ve told her she can have a voice.

She can pour in waves when she needs to.

I thank her for using my lungs to open my heart.

For connecting me to myself, to my mom, and to what’s next.

I lean towards grief to hold hands with love,

even on a beautiful day by the sea in France.

I thought I’d share one today:

I wanna hold your hand.

Just like The Beatles said.

I want to see you smile and let you make me your cheesy eggs.

I want to have my mom,

here.

And then, I can feel you whisper:

I am here.

And I smile.

xo

Her eyes were a little wide with certainty. She looked at me directly — it was both a challenge and an acknowledgment of a fact.

Grief has changed the way I engage with the world. I can either step into this new reality — or deny it. But I’m not really sure that’s even a choice.

You HAVE to do it.

Everything in our lives leads us to become who we are in this moment right now. Everything we’ve struggled through, everyone we’ve loved, those we have lost… our past holds the breadcrumbs of who we are.

Grief drops you deeply into the present moment.

For a little while, I noticed I couldn’t vision forward. I couldn’t daydream.

Really.

It’s like my nervous system didn’t want to leave where I was.

Some part of me didn’t want to imagine what life looked like without my mom.

Some part of me didn’t know how to imagine new love. A new career. New goals. A new life.

People will say:

• She wouldn’t want you to be sad.

• You need to live, so that you honor her.

• Move forward.

• What are you working on, what are you DOING?

I know this comes from the best place.

Well, I think it comes from two places.

One, is wanting me to be okay.

Seeing the people we love heartbroken and sad is difficult. The mess is hard to witness. Hard to sit with. We want to fix and tidy up and have ‘made a difference’. Said the right thing, made the person smile.

There is nothing wrong with wanting me to be okay.

Nothing wrong with making me smile.

Second, is a discomfort with grief.

A not knowing what to say and how to talk about it. Maybe a misunderstanding about the goal of grieving. Or having your own experience with grief that isn’t matching up with what you’re witnessing.

That’s okay too. Everyone’s grief journey is their own.

What I’m learning about Grief from my mom.

I don’t want to let it go. Not even the sadness.

When I let myself pour, my heart opens and I feel love— my love for her and hers for me.

When I see her in sunflowers, I feel her delight.

When I watch her favorite movie, I hear her laugh and see her sweet smile.

My goal in grief is not to let her go, not to distract myself from sadness.

My mom told us “I know you’ll be sad, but try to be happy too.”

Of course, there’s sadness. The size of it— as big as my love for her and of hers for me.

A year after her death, there are still moments that bring me to my knees. That will be true for as long as its true.

And I’m able to carry her with me more.

I've invited her to stay. Because I’m giving myself permission and time, I’m having the embodied experience of discovering she really is everywhere.

Rafiki has parted the tall grass and told me:

“Look down there. Look harder. You see? He lives in you.”

click here to see the clip from The Lion King (It’s beautiful).

Now there’s no going back. There’s no unseeing that my mom lives in me.

And I love that!

It fills me with joy, delight and an experience of grief that feels more like love and light than sadness.

My friend said: “You HAVE to do it.”

I appreciate her clarity.

It’s true.

We all have to decide who we are and who we want to be.

We have to pick up the pieces of our broken hearts and kintsugi them back together.

We get to heal the wounds of our past. I think, we also get to heal the wounds our mother’s carried.

In the living, we figure out how we spend our days.

What connections we hold close.

What we want to create in the world.

How we carry our grief forward.

We let the parts of us that no longer serve fall into the past— and we iterate, again and again, to become new.

What’s the answer to it all?

I don’t know.

My commitment to my mom and to myself is this:

I will take it one day at a time.

I will lean into my relationships.

I will consider who I am and who I want to be in this world.

I will love deeply and rest well.

I will carry her with me each day. Inviting her to use my eyes to see the sunrise and my legs to dance with.

I’ll create my life — and only in looking back will I come to know the answers.

At that point, I’ll be old and wrinkly.

Real.

In the looking back, I’ll be able to weave the thread of my life and experience.

For now, I’m just a girl with pixie dust in her hands and a tear in her eye.

A heart beating.

A desire to know herself.

Little by little, friends — little by little.

Slowing down the breath can have huge implications on our nervous system, our minds, our organs— shifting the whole chemistry of the body. Whoa.

A brief simplified explanation of how it works—

Our diaphragm is a muscle. Think about that.

It’s the muscle of our breath.

Just like biceps help us pick things up, the diaphragm is the muscle for breathing.

Muscles are active, can be articulated and used, exercised, strengthened

It looks like a hot air balloon, a trampoline, an umbrella that attaches along the whole lower line of the rib basket. All the way across.

It’s a big muscle!

An umbrella over digestive organs below

A trampoline for the heart and lungs above

When we breath in, the diaphragm engages, flattens out and down creating pressure in the lungs that pulls oxygen in from outside the body - and voila… the inhale!

When we breathe out, the diaphragm relaxes, buoys back up and carbon dioxide is released - presto… the exhale.

Do you have to know how to articulate the diaphragm? Not really.

Your body is going to breathe because it knows how.

It even knows to release as much as it takes.

Our bodies are magic and efficient.

What we can do is slow it down in order to reset our nervous system, in order to ‘work out’ the diaphragm and build a relationship with our breath.

Think low and slow when you breathe, to get the most bang for your buck.

Even though breathing is free— a gift from nature and the body to you.

Here’s one exercise you can use anytime!

In a meeting, in the car, on a walk, while you watch TV, riding the subway…it’s never a ‘wrong time’ to focus on your breath.

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Box Breathing

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Take a regular breath to prepare-

Breathe in 4 3 2 1

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          Hold 4 3 2 1

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Breathe out 4 3 2 1

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         Hold 4 3 2 1

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Repeat 3-4 times (or as many as you'd like, even once!)

Take a regular breath to release the exercise

A video to box breathe together :)

Things to consider:

Sometimes, the HOLDS can make us feel anxious, the heart can race a bit (happens to me sometimes)— it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong or shouldn’t continue.

Your body wants to make sure you’re safe.

Breath retention may also not be an ideal practice for certain medical conditions, if you have concerns… talk to your doctor.

Remember: You are in the driver’s seat. If you need to pause, do it. Take a regular breath and then try again.

Your nervous system will catch on that you are in control and learn to self soothe.

A great skill for breathing and for life!

Breathing is a superpower.

Learn to wield it for yourself.

Especially when I didn’t really know I had them.

I suppose everyone has walls in one way or another. I just had never stopped long enough to consider mine. Walls are about protection and keeping people away, right? And I’m not about any of that!

I love people and I want to connect. I want to lean into people’s eyes and see their hearts. I want to fall in love with everything. I used to say in college: I love that I fall in love with my friends!

As I got older, I held onto that for the longest time. I am someone who loves. So how can I also be someone who keeps people at a distance?

I’m learning.

Growing up, I was LOVED. In all caps.

I was also a peacekeeper. I didn’t want to get into the fray. Conflict was tumultuous and could be cutting. Standing up for what I believed could leave me alone or, worse, laughed at. Little Nati put a wall around anger and being emotionally messy.

I was praised for being good and easy. And I was.

It created this belief: I am lovable because I’m good and easy.

Only recently did I realize how isolating that can be—even in the midst of my favorite people.

The “good and easy” version of me, the one who “can handle it,” also wouldn’t let me ask for help. Wouldn’t let me say: I have needs.

Not to others. Not even to myself. Not even when my dad would say ‘Natalie, break something!’ which was code for ‘you don’t have to keep it all together.’

I had this story in my head: I’m doing everything I know to do… what else is there?

We have to reach out. Ask for help.

Be brave and vulnerable. Let people see the messy, complicated, even unraveled version of us.

This is HARD.

And it was confusing—because onstage, I felt brave. I could offer my full emotional self to a role. Maybe it was all the sorrow, love, anger and desire getting a place to be spoken and felt?

Shakespeare was a playground for me: the biggest love, the biggest heartbreak, life or death. Big expression.

photo from 2008 playing Juliet with my Romeo, Michael Stablein

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.”

- Romeo & Juliet

I mean, that is gorgeous, BIG love.

So what do we do? How do we bring the walls down?

How do we move forward from the unintentional lessons of our childhoods? How do we move forward differently and on purpose?

First, we become aware. We acknowledge that there may be stories we’ve outgrown that we are still living by.

And then— we just start.

Say the thing. Reach out to the friend. Do it scared and uncomfortable.

Maybe there’s a way to avoid “the work.” I’ll tell you this… I haven’t found it.

In my experience, life gives us opportunities to grow and confront our stuff—again and again—until we either get it or decide to live with it.

These opportunities may look like jobs, life events, people, or conversations that keep coming back around. Like a record scratch we just can’t quite get over.

In 2023, I got divorced.

I didn’t know where to go, what to say, or who to turn to.

Even as things were getting hard, I didn’t want to believe we would break. We’ll be fine. We’ll sort it out. I sort things out.

And when we didn’t—it was Shakespeare-sized heartbreak.

At home, I’d collapse to my knees, crying as everything in me still tried to hold it together.

It was my first go with grief—of lost love, the me I was with him, the future I thought we’d have.

My mom would call, “How are you my beautiful daughter?” I would stop in my tracks and pour into the phone. Anger and pain needed a place to release and my dad caught me there.

And still, I fought to keep it together. To ‘move on and move forward’. I started redecorating my apartment, I hosted dinners. I felt my world start to expand as life forced me to open up. Friends showed up. I wasn’t alone.

By New Year’s Eve, my mom and I were celebrating the start of a new way forward… Owning our lives! Being free! Onward and upward.

Then it was 2024.

My mom was diagnosed with Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer in March. She died in July.

I was with her every step of the way. It is time I will forever be grateful for. We were partners in this unchosen journey—dancing around the block, cooking and talking. She was extraordinary all the way through.

I saw my sweet mom want to protect everyone she loved from the news, from the realities as we learned them. She also wanted to do it on her time. Owning her life, just as she had claimed in the New Year. I respect that. I get part of my own desire for agency from her.

In May, I heard myself tell my sweet mom: “We need to say yes when people offer to help. We cannot do this alone.”

We weren’t— there were angel nurses and generous family members, her loving students and cherished friends who showed up to sit with her, to bring food, to laugh and cry.

When she died… Shakespeare didn’t have the words.

I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t sometimes.

We were not alone. I am not alone.

Now, I dance in the mornings.

I engage in conversations about grief and how to live this one life.

I keep the door open.

I’m learning how to keep my walls down.

I name what I’m feeling when I feel it.

I don’t hide from discomfort—I let it stay.

I invite grief and discomfort to sit at my table, because I need a moment with them to show little Nati: You’re safe. I’ve got you.

I do love love and connection. I want more of it. I want to be deeply known and seen— by my family, friends, future love, peers.

And the only way to do that is to let people see all of me—

Not just the sunny parts.

Not just the resilient, easygoing, independent me—

but also the weepy bits.

The places where my heart is cracked.

Here’s something I hadn’t considered until just now, but feels true:

When the heart cracks, it opens.

There’s something in that.

It’s okay to have a heart that is cracked open by life.

It’s not easy.

But it has been beautiful.

And led me to feel as boundless as the sea… even if it’s little by little.