There comes a moment in every unraveling when we realize there is no going back. No way to stitch together what has unraveled, no way to return to the certainty that once held us steady.

This is the place between what was and what will be.

The air here is thick with questions, the ground uneven beneath our feet. We reach for something solid—some thread of understanding, some assurance that we will not dissolve entirely—and yet, our hands close around nothing but silence.

It is a terrifying thing, to stand in the unknown.

But here’s what I want you to hear: Uncertainty does not mean you are lost.

It means you are still here.

And maybe that is where we begin.

The Art of Holding the Unfixable

There are things in this life that cannot be solved. Prayers that do not bring answers. Endings that arrive too soon, losses that take up residence in our bones, questions that refuse to settle.

And we have been told, in a thousand different ways, that faith should make these things easier.

That trust should smooth out the rough edges. That belief should be a bridge over the chasm of our grief.

But what if faith is not about escape?

What if it is about learning to stay?

To sit in the rubble of what we thought we knew, not with frantic hands trying to piece it back together, but with the quiet courage to witness what remains.

If that feels too big, start smaller.

Let your feet press into the ground.
Feel the weight of your hands resting in your lap.
Notice the rise and fall of your breath.

Because even now, even here, you are being held.

And that is no small thing.

Finding the Beautiful (Even in the Ashes)

There is a particular kind of beauty that only reveals itself in the absence of what once was.

Not the curated beauty of perfection, but the stubborn beauty of survival.

The way sunlight filters through dust motes in an empty room. The hush of the world after snowfall. The worn edges of a book read a hundred times over.

We do not have to force gratitude to make space for awe.

And we do not have to resolve our grief to notice what is still whole within us.

So, look around.

Not to ignore the ache, but to remind yourself that something remains.

Because sometimes, survival looks like a single deep breath.

And sometimes, it looks like letting the light find you when you weren’t expecting it.

Building a Survival Kit (No, Not That Kind)

We are told to be strong. To push through. To keep going.

But strength is not always a clenched jaw and squared shoulders. Sometimes, it is the willingness to soften. To rest. To tether ourselves to something small and steady when everything else feels like too much.

So, what if we built a different kind of survival kit?

Not the kind that prepares for catastrophe, but the kind that steadies us when we are already in the middle of it.

What belongs in yours?

A breath practice? A grounding exercise? A song that reminds you of who you are?
The scent of something familiar? A well-worn prayer? A whisper of kindness to yourself?

Gather them.

Keep them close.

Because no one makes it through this life on willpower alone.

We need something to hold onto. We need beauty. We need each other.

And when all else fails, we need to remember:

We are still here.

And that is no small thing.

If this resonates, and you’d like to explore this work in a deeper way, I meet with people for somatic therapy sessions—both in person and online—once or twice a month. If that feels like something you need, reach out. I would love to hold space with you.