Episode 75

We're not guaranteed tomorrow.
I know that sounds like a cliché.
But this week, it stopped being a cliché for me.
Someone I knew—someone who was supposed to show up the next day—died unexpectedly.
And it made me think about all the things we assume we'll have another day to do.
The conversations. The dreams. The experiences.
The parts of ourselves we're becoming.
And it also made me realize something else:
Sometimes we're grieving because someone has died. And sometimes we're grieving because something in us has died—or is dying—or has simply completed.
And those two kinds of grief can look remarkably similar.
So today, I want to sit with you in this space of grief.
Not just the grief that comes when someone dies, but the many forms grief can take—and what it might be asking us to notice, feel, release, and perhaps even live more fully.
If you're ready to join me, pull up a comfy chair, invite in your soul, and be open to receive exactly what you need to live, be and thrive as the embodied soul you are.
This week, I was faced with—and those around me were faced with—a shocking and abrupt death.
Someone who had worked closely with us on our build, and on the mountain where we live, and died in an unexpected accident.
It was someone who was going to be showing up the next day.
And then he was gone.
And there’s something about a sudden death that can really bring you face-to-face with how short life is.
We're not guaranteed tomorrow.
We're not guaranteed another conversation.
We're not guaranteed another opportunity to say something that has been left unsaid.
And sometimes we don't realize how much we're assuming that there will be more time.
More time to do the thing that's on our heart.
More time to have the conversation.
More time to take the trip.
More time to create something.
More time to become whoever it is we're becoming.
And when something like this happens, it can really bring that into perspective.
It can interrupt the autopilot of our lives.
Because so often, we're just moving through our days.
And it doesn't matter whether you're in a job you don't like, or whether you love what you're doing.
It doesn't matter whether you've awakened and you're doing all of these, quote-unquote, spiritual things in your life.
We can do anything on autopilot.
And sometimes we allow ourselves to put off until tomorrow something that has been quietly drawing us forward.
Something that's been on our heart.
Something we know we want to experience, create, say, or become.
And I don't say that to create fear.
I don't think the message is, "Oh my gosh, you better hurry up because you might die tomorrow."
That's not what I'm talking about.
For me, it's more about becoming conscious of the life that is actually here.
Because we don't know how much time we have.
And that doesn't have to be frightening.
It can actually be an invitation.
An invitation to pay attention.
An invitation to ask ourselves:
What matters to me?
What is actually on my heart?
What am I postponing?
What have I been telling myself I'll do someday?
And there's another piece of this that has been very present for me this week.
And that is grief itself.
Because as I watched the people around me—and watched myself—I was reminded again that every person grieves differently.
Some people cry immediately.
Some people need to talk.
Some people need to be surrounded by people.
Some people need to be alone.
Some people become very active.
Some people become very quiet.
Some people feel it immediately.
Some people don't feel it until days, weeks, or even months later.
Some people become angry.
Some people become despondent.
Some people want a hug.
Some people don't want to be touched.
Some people want to gather together and celebrate someone's life.
Some people want to sit quietly under a tree and contemplate.
And there is no right way to feel.
I know this personally.
I've actually judged myself in the past for not grieving "properly."
I'm not someone who naturally sheds a lot of tears.
And when someone close to me would be crying, I could sometimes look at myself and think, "Why am I not crying?"
"Shouldn't I be crying?"
"Am I not feeling this enough?"
But what I've learned is that the absence of tears doesn't mean the absence of grief.
The way grief moves through me is simply different.
And the way grief moves through you may be completely different from the way it moves through someone sitting right beside you.
And I think this is really important to remember.
Because we can turn grief into another thing we think we're supposed to do correctly.
"Oh, I didn't cry enough."
"Oh, I should be more upset."
"Why am I laughing?"
"Why do I want to be alone?"
"Why do I want to go to work?"
"Why don't I want to talk about it?"
"Why am I feeling okay today?"
And we can begin judging our own process—or someone else's.
But grief doesn't necessarily have a prescribed appearance.
Allowing grief doesn't necessarily mean expressing it outwardly.
It means allowing your system to have its response without judging it or overriding it.
Sometimes allowing grief is crying.
Sometimes it's talking.
Sometimes it's silence.
Sometimes it's going for a walk.
Sometimes it's doing something completely ordinary because your body needs something ordinary, something grounded.
Sometimes it's laughing at a memory.
Sometimes it's needing people.
And sometimes it's needing nobody.
And sometimes you don't even realize you're grieving until something seemingly tiny opens the door.
So if you're moving through grief right now, I invite you not to compare your grief to anyone else's.
And not to judge yourself for how it is—or isn't—showing up.
Let it be yours.
Let it move in the way it needs to move.
And there is another kind of grief that I've been contemplating this week.
Because we tend to think of grief as something that happens when someone dies.
Or when something is taken away from us.
And certainly, that is grief.
But sometimes we aren't grieving because something went wrong.
Sometimes we're grieving because something has completed.
Sometimes we're grieving because we're changing.
And I think this is something many of us are experiencing right now.
As we’re moving through times of change, of chapters of closing, completion, endings, new beginnings, crossing thresholds—all of those things that have been coming up again and again—we can also experience grief around the loss of identity.
We're moving beyond who we've been.
We're letting go of masks we've worn.
We're letting go of beliefs that have determined what we experience, how we experience it, and how we show up in the world.
We're letting go of patterns.
We're letting go of fear structures.
We're letting go of versions of ourselves that learned how to belong.
That learned how to please people.
That learned how to feel loved.
That learned how to be safe.
And sometimes those identities are falling away almost like old skins.
And even when we know we're ready to release them, there can still be grief.
Because that version of us served a purpose.
They got us here.
They created things.
They built relationships, created a life. They kept us safe.
And now perhaps we're outgrowing them.
We're becoming more of our truth.
More of our essence.
And there's a strange paradox in that.
We can be deeply ready for something to change...
and still grieve what we're leaving behind.
We can know that a chapter has completed...
and still feel sadness about closing the book.
We can know that we're becoming someone new...
and still love the person we've been.
And I think that's important.
Because we don't necessarily have to reject the old version of ourselves.
We don't have to say, "That wasn't me."
It was you.
It was a part of your journey.
It was a part of how you got here.
And perhaps now we're simply saying:
Thank you. You don't have to drive anymore.
And sometimes we're not only grieving who we've been… We’re grieving what we thought the future was going to look like.
We're grieving relationships as they change.
We're grieving dreams that are changing shape.
We're grieving chapters that are ending even when we know they're supposed to end.
And I think sometimes we're even grieving something before we've consciously acknowledged that it’s changing.
So if you're feeling grief right now and you don't quite know why, perhaps that's something to be curious about.
You don't have to immediately figure it out.
You don't have to give it a label.
But you might simply ask:
What am I grieving?
What feels like it's ending?
What am I releasing?
What part of me is changing?
What am I afraid to lose?
And perhaps even:
What from this chapter do I want to bring with me?
Because releasing doesn't mean throwing everything away.
There are things from who we've been that belong with us.
The wisdom.
The experiences.
The love.
The lessons.
The parts of ourselves that we genuinely cherish.
We can bring those forward.
And then there are things that perhaps no longer belong.
And can we allow those to fall away?
So wherever your grief is coming from right now—whether you know exactly what it is, or you don't—I really invite you to be with it.
Allow yourself to feel whatever it is.
Allow it to move through you without judgment.
And then, perhaps, allow grief to ask you a question.
Because this experience of impermanence has brought me back to questions I've contemplated many times before.
I remember when people I worked with would retire from the corporation, and then I would sometimes hear, only months later, that they had passed away.
And it made me stop, because we can spend so much of our lives saying, "When I retire, I'll..."
"When I have more time, I'll..."
"When the kids are older..."
"When this project is finished..."
"When I've made enough money..."
"When things settle down..."
And then suddenly there’s this realization:
We don't actually know that we'll get to that "then."
So perhaps this week, take a few moments to reflect.
Not from a place of fear.
Not from a place of "I have to change my whole life immediately."
But simply from presence.
What do you really want?
How do you want to feel?
Where in your life are there dreams or desires or experiences that have been quietly calling to you?
What have you been putting off?
What is on your heart?
Is there something you've been waiting to say to someone?
Is there something you've been wanting to share?
Is there a conversation you've been avoiding?
Is there an experience you've been telling yourself you'll have someday?
And here's a question you can play with:
If you knew you had only one more year, what would you do differently?
Or one more month?
Or one more week?
Or even one more day?
Not because I want you to panic and go do all of those things.
But because sometimes that question helps us see what we've been unconsciously postponing.
And then ask yourself:
What’s one small step toward that thing that I could take now?
Because perhaps you don't need to change your whole life.
Perhaps you simply need to make the phone call.
Write the message.
Take the walk.
Book the experience.
Start the project.
Say the thing.
Give yourself permission to want what you want.
Don't let things go unsaid.
Don't let dreams go unanswered.
And at the same time, don't turn that into another thing you have to get right.
You don't have to accomplish anything.
You don't have to fulfill every dream.
You don't have to suddenly become a completely different person.
Just pay attention.
Because this moment—this day, this life that is happening right now—is the life you have.
And the present really is a gift.
The present is the gift.
And the present is also presence.
This moment.
This breath.
This person sitting beside you.
This tree.
This bird.
This conversation.
This ordinary Wednesday—or Saturday—or whatever day you're listening to this.
It's here.
And we don't know how many of these moments we have.
So perhaps grief isn't only asking us to feel what we've lost.
Perhaps it’s also asking us to notice what we still have.
And if you're grieving right now, let yourself grieve.
Let it flow.
Don't judge the tears if they come.
Don't judge yourself if they don't.
Don't judge the laughter.
Don't judge the silence.
Don't judge the need to be alone.
Don't judge the need to be held.
Honour it all.
Honour your grief.
And honour the grief of the people around you.
Because what breaks your heart may not touch someone else in the same way.
And something that doesn't seem significant to you may absolutely undo another person.
You may find that someone's passing doesn't hit you immediately.
And then something tiny—a bird, an animal, a memory, a smell, a song—can suddenly rip your heart open.
Honour it all.
There is no hierarchy of grief.
And there is no right way to feel.
There is simply what is moving through you.
And perhaps this is also where compassion comes in.
Because we're all moving through different things.
We're all at different places in our lives.
Someone may be deep in grief while someone else is experiencing an extraordinary time of joy.
Someone may be beginning while someone else is ending.
Someone may be falling apart while someone else has the capacity to hold them.
And that's okay.
We all don’t have to be in the same place at the same time.
When you're moving through something difficult, let someone else hold space for you.
And when you're in a place of love and light and expansion, hold space for someone else.
Not by trying to pull them out of their grief.
Not by telling them they should be grateful, or positive, or looking for the lesson.
Just by being there. By loving them. By allowing their process to be theirs.
And perhaps, when you have the capacity, you can hold a vision for them beyond the experience they're having right now.
Not forcing them to get there. Just knowing that there is more life. More love. More possibility. More moments ahead.
We're all moving at different paces.
And we're all walking each other home.
So this week, wherever you are, I invite you to notice.
What are you grieving?
What is completing?
What are you ready to release?
What is calling you forward?
And what is one thing—just one thing—that you could bring from someday into today?
And if you're grieving, let it flow.
If you're celebrating, celebrate.
If you're somewhere in between, be there.
Honour where you are. Honour where others are. And remember that you don't have to walk through any of it perfectly.
You simply have to be here.
With what is.
With what’s leaving.
With what’s becoming.
And with the life that is here, right now.
I'm sending you so much love, wherever you are and whatever you're moving through.
And I look forward to being with you again next week.
