When Everything Falls Away

Notes from a Season of Loss and Quiet Transformation

Photo by Kristine Weilert on Unsplash

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.” ~ Mary Oliver

The Clearing

After my mom died in October 2021, I found myself without a home, a vehicle, and the remnants of a career. It was as if the decks had been cleared and some kind of rebuilding was underway—only I had no idea what was being built.

My Volkswagen GTI had a system-wide electrical failure, and the repair would’ve cost more than the car was worth. Meanwhile, the pandemic lockdowns had wiped out most of my holistic wellness work. In the most important way, though, losing that work freed me up to care for my mom, who had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer in September 2020. It was her wish to stay at home, and I was in a position to make that possible.

Although I had known grief before, losing my father and partner over a decade earlier, nothing could have prepared me for this end-of-life journey with my mom. And while my sister, who lived just five minutes away, was also deeply involved in her care, the day-to-day experience was mine alone to hold. It was an honor and a privilege to be with my mom through those days and nights—a gradual, and quiet reversal of our roles that I had never anticipated. In that time, I came to see more fully the depth of her love for me and my siblings. To care for someone who is completely dependent on you is a profound act—one all mothers know quite well.

As I look back now, I see that time as an initiation, into what, I’m still not entirely sure. Perhaps it was a deepening of the path I was already on. Perhaps it marked the beginning of something still undefined. What I do know is that it ushered in a season of aloneness that continues to linger, as whatever this new chapter is continues to slowly reveal itself.

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One of the horses at the farm

Into the Unknown

I could no longer afford to stay in the home I had shared with my mom, and by January 1, 2022, I had to be out. My dear friend Debbie picked me up on New Year’s Eve and drove the 2.5 hours to her farm in the Shenandoah Valley. Along the way, we had a quiet dinner at the Cracker Barrel in the town nearest the farm—the only place still open nearby given the holiday. Raw with grief, I have no memory of what we ate that night—only the aching hollowness of leaving my mother’s home behind, and the immense gratitude I felt for Debbie’s quiet presence.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, I would spend the next four months at the farm, mostly in solitude. At first, it wasn’t by choice. The grief was too raw, the silence too loud. I missed the structure, the purpose, the constant tending that caregiving had required of me. Without those demands, I didn’t quite know who I was anymore.

But slowly, something in the stillness began to shift. The quiet that had once felt deafening, even threatening at times, became a kind of refuge. I started to notice the rhythms of the land: the way the light moved through the trees at different times of day, the sound of the wind across the fields, the steadiness of the animals going about their lives. In the absence of doing, I was invited simply to be.

Solitude, I came to understand, was not the absence of connection. It was the space in which I could begin to reconnect with myself. After the intensity of caregiving, that space was essential. I needed time to grieve not just my mom, but the version of myself that had existed before her illness—the one who left a good government job to chase a dream, who had poured herself into building something meaningful.

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Grief has no timeline

And in that quiet, another truth began to surface: I still hadn’t fully grieved the loss of Tom, my partner, who died a decade earlier. I had carried that sorrow quietly, folding it into the busyness of work, the demands of caregiving, and the instinct to keep moving forward. But grief has its own timeline. And in the stillness of the farm, it returned—gentler, but persistent—asking to be witnessed.

This time, I met grief differently. I had nothing but time and space—and that turned out to be a kind of grace. I was allowed to sit with the many dimensions of loss, to let them rise and pass at their own pace. It felt like a purifying fire, burning away everything that was no longer essential. And in that fire, I began to soften. I began to forgive myself—for what I couldn’t fix, for the times I’d disappeared into busyness, for the quiet ways I’d abandoned parts of myself in order to keep going.

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My days were simple: walking the land, cooking nourishing meals, listening to music that had me revisiting every decade of my life. Cell service was spotty at best, and reliable internet was only accessible at a small brewery closer to town, reachable only when Debbie could make the trip, which wasn’t often. With the outside world held at bay, I was left with the land, the silence, and my own breath. In a strange way, it felt like the world had given me permission to pause—to unravel, to rest, to begin again.

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The Threads Beneath Loss

And in that pause, I began to see the threads that connected this grief to an earlier one. Tom’s death, as devastating as it was, had been a turning point in my life. His transition cracked me open, and in the cracks, light began to enter. In the wake of that loss, I found solace in meditation. Later, I discovered soul-deep community in a teacher training program, a space that held me when I could barely hold myself. It was Tom’s illness that led me to Reiki, and to a deepening of my spiritual practice. The seeds of my current path as a holistic wellness practitioner were planted in the grief and upheaval of that time.

Now, years later, it felt as if life had brought me full circle—not back to the same place, but to a deeper layer of the same path. This season of solitude was not just about healing from recent loss. It was an invitation to revisit those early seeds, to tend to them with even more intention, and to listen more closely to what they were asking to become.

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A Slow Return

Eventually, the season of solitude began to give way to movement. After leaving the farm, I spent time with my beloved friend Barrett, trying Colorado on as a potential place to land. It didn’t quite fit, but the experience helped me begin imagining what rebuilding could look like. Through another good friend, LeeAnn, I was given the opportunity to house sit in Delaware for four months—another potential landing spot, and another chapter in the slow, nonlinear process of re-entry.

In time, I found myself back in Maryland, the place I once left and wasn’t sure I’d return to. But this time, I returned differently. I began to put down tentative roots and find new rhythms. I resumed seeing clients for private sessions and began offering in-person Reiki trainings again, while working part-time at a local organic market to stabilize my income. I also connected with a nearby hospice organization, where I now volunteer several hours a week, offering Reiki to patients and caregivers. It’s deeply meaningful work—an offering of presence and comfort, and a way to pay forward the profound care my mom received in the last months of her life.

Her hospice experience lit a quiet spark I hadn’t expected—an interest in becoming an end-of-life doula. I don’t yet know if that’s the path I’ll formally take, but the calling feels familiar: to hold space for what is tender, to honor transitions, to meet people where they are. If nothing else, it’s deepened my reverence for the present moment, and for the unseen ways we are shaped by each season of our lives.

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The Space Between

There’s still so much I don’t know. I can’t point to a clear path forward, or a single lesson tied with a bow. And honestly, I’ve come to appreciate that. Life isn’t always about resolution—it’s about relationship. With change. With grief. With ourselves.

In many ways, I’ve grown more comfortable resting in the liminal—the space between no longer and not yet. It’s not always easy, but it has its own quiet wisdom. A place where questions can breathe. A space where I can surrender to what life wants to live through me, rather than what I think I should be building.

Maybe that’s the gift of solitude—not just as a healing balm, but as a teacher. One that helps us trust the unfolding, even when the way ahead isn’t clear. One that reminds us that the rebuilding doesn’t have to be rushed.

For now, I’m here. Rooting in the present moment. Trusting the next step will reveal itself in time.

Are there areas of your life where you're being invited to pause, listen, or surrender—without knowing what comes next?

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Additional Resources:

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