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Healing rarely happens in the neat, linear way we imagine. More often, it unfolds in the in-between places; those liminal spaces where endings and beginnings blur, where grief and renewal coexist. To step into liminality is to enter a threshold: a sacred pause between what has been and what is yet to come. 🌌 What Are Liminal Spaces? The word liminal  comes from the Latin limen , meaning “threshold.” Liminal spaces are transitional zones; doorways, twilight hours, the hush b

Every year on March 20th, people around the world gather — in living rooms, libraries, classrooms, and quiet corners — to celebrate World Storytelling Day , a global honoring of the tales that shape us. Stories of love. Stories of loss. Stories of becoming. Stories of the people who changed us. For those who are grieving, storytelling is more than tradition. It is lifeline. It is ritual. It is remembrance. We carry stories because they are the last things grief cannot take fr

There are moments in grief when language feels impossible — when the ache is too deep, the memories too sharp, the silence too heavy. And yet, again and again, we find ourselves reaching for words. Not because they fix anything, but because they give shape to what feels unholdable. Writing is more than expression. Writing is ritual. It is a way of honoring what we’ve lost, remembering what mattered, and making space for what still lives inside us. It is a practice of returnin

Every April, the world turns its attention to poetry; to the lines that hold what prose cannot, to the metaphors that carry what the heart struggles to say. National Poetry Month is a celebration of language, yes, but for those who are grieving, it can also be a sanctuary. Poetry is where grief goes when it needs a place to rest. It is where memory softens into imagery. It is where love finds a way to speak again. If you are missing someone this month, poetry may be the compa

Grief often feels like a weight, a heaviness that resists movement. Yet in nature, decay is never wasted; it becomes nourishment, a fertile ground for renewal. Mushrooms, born from the dark soil of decomposition, remind us that sorrow too can be composted. They are guides of decay, showing us how to transform what feels unbearable into the beginnings of new life. 🌌 Mushrooms as Teachers of Transformation Mushrooms thrive where endings occur. They emerge from fallen leaves, r

Twice a year, the world pauses. Light and dark stand in perfect balance. Day and night meet as equals. And for a brief moment, the earth reminds us what it means to hold two truths at once. This is the equinox — a threshold, a hinge, a sacred in‑between. For those who are grieving, the equinox can feel especially meaningful. Grief is its own kind of balance: the tension between remembering and moving forward, between holding on and letting go, between the love that remains an

There are moments in the year when the world seems to shift beneath our feet. The light changes. The air feels different. The trees transform. The days stretch or contract. These seasonal transitions can be beautiful; but when you’re grieving, they can also feel unsettling. Change in the natural world often stirs change within us, and grief has a way of rising to the surface during these in‑between times. If you’ve ever felt your grief intensify during a seasonal shift, you’r

Spring arrives quietly at first. A shift in the air. A softening of the cold. A single brave bloom pushing through the soil. For many, spring is a season of hope, a time of renewal, rebirth, and fresh beginnings. But when you’re grieving, spring can feel complicated. The world wakes up, but your heart may still feel heavy. The light returns, but your inner landscape may still be winter. If this season feels out of sync with your grief, you’re not alone. 🌿 The Pressure to Fee

Grief doesn’t always speak loudly. Sometimes it grows underground; slow, quiet, unseen. Sometimes it lives in the body like mycelium, stretching across time and memory, connecting moments we thought were lost. This is the wisdom of the mushroom. This is the truth of grief. 🌙 Grief as Mycelium Mushrooms are the fruiting bodies of something much larger; the mycelial network beneath the soil. Grief is the same. What we see: Tears Silence Ritual Memory Longing What we don’t see:

Grief is often described as an ache, a wound, a hollow space where someone once lived. But beneath the pain; beneath the longing, the shock, the quiet devastation; there is something else. Something softer. Something enduring. There is love. Not the love that once moved between two people in conversation, touch, or shared moments; but the love that remains after everything changes. The love that grief leaves behind. This love is different. It’s quieter. It’s deeper. It’s shap

Honoring His 21st Birthday — February 16, 2026 A ritual of stars, earth, and enduring love ✨ Opening: Enter the Constellation of Memory Dim the lights. Light a single candle. Imagine its glow as the first star appearing at dusk; a signal fire across the veil. Place your hand over your heart. Feel the gravity of love pulling you inward, like a planet returning to its orbit. 🌟 Speak His Name Into the Night Sky Say his name aloud: Hunter. Let it rise like a constellation formin

Today would have been Hunter’s 21st birthday ; a milestone that should have been marked with candles, celebration, and the bright unfolding of adulthood. Instead, the day arrives with a different kind of weight. A tenderness. A longing. A love that has nowhere to land except memory, ritual, and the quiet spaces of the heart. Birthdays after loss are complicated. They are both love and ache, celebration and sorrow, presence and absence. They remind us not only of the day someo

Valentine’s Day arrives every year wrapped in red ribbons and bright expectations. The world fills with roses, heart‑shaped everything, and declarations of love that seem to echo from every direction. For many, it’s sweet. For others, it’s complicated. And for those who are grieving, Valentine’s Day can feel like a spotlight on what’s missing. If your heart is still healing, this day may not feel like a celebration. It may feel like a reminder; of absence, of longing, of the

February is often painted in shades of pink and red, a month of roses, chocolates, handwritten cards, and declarations of love. For many, it’s a celebration. But for those who are grieving, the Month of Hearts can feel like a spotlight on what’s missing. Love is everywhere. And so is the ache. If you’re moving through February with a tender heart, this is for you. 💔 When Love and Loss Collide Grief is love with nowhere to go. And Valentine’s season has a way of stirring that

The turning of the year is more than a calendar shift; it is a threshold, a liminal space where endings and beginnings meet. In this pause, we are invited to listen deeply, to honor what has passed, and to plant seeds for what is to come. Setting intentions becomes a sacred act, not of rigid resolution, but of gentle alignment with the rhythms of healing and renewal. 🌌 Why Sacred Intentions Matter Intentions differ from goals. Goals often focus on achievement, while intentio

Winter has a way of slowing everything down. The world grows quieter. The light grows softer. And grief, already heavy, can feel even more present in the stillness. For many, winter is a season of remembering. A season of longing. A season where the cold seems to echo the spaces left behind. But winter is also a season of ritual. A time when small acts can become sacred. A time when tending to your grief can feel like tending to a small flame in the dark. If you’re longing fo

Every January, there’s a day the world has named Blue Monday ; the so‑called “saddest day of the year.” It falls on the third Monday of the month, when the holidays have faded, the cold lingers, and the pressure to feel renewed has already begun to crack. But for those who are grieving, Blue Monday isn’t a single day. It’s a season. A heaviness. A quiet ache that doesn’t check the calendar before it arrives. And yet, there’s something strangely comforting about a day that ack

The world loves to tell us that the New Year is a fresh start. A clean slate. A moment to reinvent ourselves, set goals, and step boldly into something brighter. But when you’re grieving, January doesn’t feel like a beginning. It feels like a continuation; of longing, of absence, of the quiet ache that followed you from the year before. The calendar flips, but the heart doesn’t reset. And that’s okay. 🌙 The Pressure to “Start Over” Everywhere you look, there are messages abo

Winter is a season of hush. The trees stand bare, the nights stretch long, and the world seems to whisper, “Slow down.” For those...

Winter has a way of quieting the world. The trees stand bare, the nights grow long, and the air carries a hush that invites us inward....