It was already hot the other morning as I walked along our quiet country road. The kind of heat that settles in early and dares you to move. Still, I found myself snapping photos of nature’s latest gifts — bursts of wild color showing up like unexpected joy.

The days of the past week had started to blur a bit. My husband’s been sick — really sick — and I’ve been back in nurse mode, watching over him and weighing the ever-present question: “Is this just a virus… or something more?” It ultimately ended up with an emergency room visit last night and an overnight stay in the hospital for him.

Add to that a test injection in my neck — a step toward possibly getting an ablation like I had on my low back last year. Chronic pain has been my companion for nearly two years now. I don’t use the word suffering — it’s too loaded, and I’m careful with my language. Words matter. And I’ve learned that when I give pain too much emotional weight, it starts to run the show.

But still, there’s grief here.

Grief for the body that once moved with ease. Grief for the strength I used to take for granted. Grief for the freedom of simply deciding to go for a walk — and not having to weigh whether my neck will punish me for it later.

This last third season of my life (statistically speaking) is an interesting one. I have so much I want to accomplish in the last decades of my physical life. And while I’m grateful for so much, I’m also reckoning with changes I didn’t ask for. Watching my husband slow down. Watching myself slow down. Feeling like I’m taking two steps forward… and then three back.

Sound familiar?

If you’re in that space — that stuck place where your body, your heart, or your life just isn’t cooperating — I see you.

I’ve spent years holding space for people in grief. I’ve seen how we hesitate to ask for help. How we fear being perceived as weak or burdensome. How we tell ourselves, “I should be stronger than this.” I do it too. It’s not my MO to complain. I don’t want to be “Pity Patty.” But that voice — the one that says we have to keep pushing through silently — that voice is not being truthful (okay a bit of a liar)!

We need support.

When I finally found a provider who listened, really listened, to my pain — who didn’t dismiss it as “just arthritis and you just need to live with it” — I cried. Not because of the diagnosis, but because I finally felt seen. Heard. And hopeful.

That’s the power of the right support team.

Which brings me to this: In September, the weekend after Labor Day, we’re hosting our very first BREATHE Retreat for Grief.

It’s time.

This retreat, grounded in the proven BREATHE Coaching Model for Grief, is designed to be the exact kind of support so many of us need — a space to be held, seen and gently guided. Whether you’re grieving a child, a spouse, a parent, a friend, a beloved pet or even the version of yourself you used to be… this retreat is for you.

There’s no hierarchy of loss. There’s no comparison in pain. Every grief story is sacred. Every grief story deserves space.

During our time together, you’ll be nourished — with farm-to-table meals, yes, but also with care, attention, nature and community. You’ll get to press pause on the chaos of daily life and simply be.

To reflect. To remember. To reconnect with your breath — and with your capacity to hope again.

I know this works. I’ve lived it.

And just like I needed a second opinion, a different path, a provider who would see me, I believe this retreat will be that moment for someone else.

Maybe for you.

So I invite you to come walk with us. Let’s take those two steps forward together — even if there’s a step back tomorrow. That’s okay. Healing isn’t linear. But it is possible.

🌿 You are worthy of a weekend held in love, comfort, faith, and hope
🌿 You are not broken. You are grieving.
🌿 And you deserve to breathe again…

Check out the details here: https://www.healingfamilygrief.com/the-breathe-retreat/ and if the speaks to you, take advantage of the early bird pricing until the end of July.