"That’s the tricky thing about being an empath, healer, and nurturer: not overloading our plate is difficult because of a genuine desire to be of service to others.

The trouble is, our cup will eventually run dry. Then we’ll operate from a place of hostility and obligation, which feels yucky and has a distinctly negative energy.

In order to keep our vibe high and our interactions healthy, we’ve got to establish healthy boundaries that protect and empower us. The deeper the commitment to our limits, the more effective we’ll be with every interaction..."

"That’s the thing about loving deeply. It’s an experience of pure bliss, vulnerability, and connection. The person becomes so embedded in the fabric of our lives that it seems inconceivable that they aren’t there all along.

Then should we need to liberate ourselves from the relationships that no longer serve us, the unbinding feels like a breath we can’t catch: like someone is forcing our face underwater, and the more we resist, the farther we move from being able to breathe.

Lesson being: relinquish control over how life turns out..."

"Healing is never linear. 

Rather than respond in opposition, what if we move with the current, letting the pain momentarily wash over us? Could we sit with the experience? Listen to it maybe? Understand the purpose? Notice the physical sensations accompanying it?

Accepting pain is as important as accepting love, and healing begins where the hurt still resides.

When we hold space for these feelings, we slowly release them. This doesn’t mean the emotions won’t reemerge, rather the magnitude of their impact lessons with time..."

"She suggested that the most loving action was to lay my 12-year-old baby to rest.

After a few emotional hours of searching for COVID-friendly options that would allow me, my mother, and my sister to be present, I booked an outdoor euthanasia for the next day.

The next 24 hours were a blur of disbelief.

He seemed fine. No, he was fine. Sure he was old, but he couldn’t be scheduled to be euthanized. He couldn’t be sick. His heart was strong. He was strong. And yet, he wasn’t..."

"Was it because I grew up in an alcoholic home? Was it because of the tension and anger that dwelled constantly within those four walls? Was it because of painful experiences I hadn’t dealt with? Or was it because I was a teenage girl; raging with hormones and descending into anarchy on a desperate quest to figure out who I was. All of the above.

Yet beyond my physical surroundings there are also my genetic ones. I have a predisposition to depression and everyone in my family tree starting with my grandparents and continuing down was or should have been treated for their symptoms..."

I have cried every day this week and I’m sure I’ll cry every day for the next. I am not over this grief and I don’t think I ever will be.

What this past year has taught me is that grief is not something to “get over.” It is not something you overcome, forget, or heal from. For me, grief is more like a tattoo. When you first get it, it’s painful and the healing takes time. Then when it’s healed, it stays with you forever. Somedays you may notice it more than others, but it’s always there. It’s a part of your story now.

My tattoo is still healing. My grief is still raw. Some days it hurts less, while others the pain is so debilitating that I’m unsure I will ever recover.