Find out what you really want in love take the quiz now

My Great Aunt Esther’s Cloak of Stones

I’m still basking in the glow of last weekend’s amazing Heartbreak to Healing Grief Retreat for women. Thirty-one women, all of whom had suffered a loss, came together for a healing weekend at Catalyst Ranch in downtown Chicago, who generously donated their space to us! The truth is, after the profound healing that happened for the attendees at our Love Mama Retreat in the redwoods of California last April, I wasn’t sure how much of an impact I could make over just one weekend in the middle of the city. But the weekend was profoundly healing and inspiring.

Yes, I said inspiring and grief in the same paragraph. But to me, that’s what grief has become. It inspires me: to live fully; to let go of the things that don’t matter; to welcome in grace; and to speak my truth. My loss has inspired me to let go of the fear that holds me back and has burned away so much of me that I’ve had to rebuild myself on new terms.

Logo for our last retreat in Chicago

Logo for our last retreat in Chicago

The logo of the retreat is a phoenix rising. Just days after Sammy died, I received a text from my dear soul-friend Maria, who shared a vision she had (she’s a shaman and healer, so she has a lot of visions). In her text, she wrote, “I saw the Laura we all knew shattering into pieces. I am mourning the loss of who she was and all the pain involved, both in what happened and what’s coming. But I know with every inch of my being that the Laura that will come out of these flames, the phoenix I can see clearly, is going to vibrate so high that it will inspire everybody you touch.” I didn’t have any idea while reading this that days later, I would have a metaphysical experience that would take me into the fire and begin my transformation. And I sure as hell couldn’t imagine rising from anything, especially from the impossible pain of losing my boy. No one could have told me then that less than four years later, I would be living on a heart-centered mission to inspire others to rise from the ashes as I have. And how perfect that Maria now joins me as a facilitator on my retreats, supporting others as they go through the fire of loss in the same way she has supported me.

When I was growing up, I was very close to my Great Aunt Esther. She was a big, beautiful woman—my beloved grandmother’s sister—and the two of them often came to stay with us when my parents were out of town. I used to love her cackling laughter and listening to her and my grandmother gossiping together when I was supposed to be asleep. Yet Aunt Esther’s life hadn’t been easy. Her husband had died in World War II, and she lost her only son, Allan, in a diving accident when he was in his 20s, years before I was born. Despite her jovial nature, every time we were all together as a family, the adults tended to talk about Aunt Esther in hushed tones whenever she wasn’t in the room, saying things like, “Poor thing…” or “You never get over something like that…”.

I remember listening to their words and finding the idea terrifying that there was a pain you could “never get over.” What was that like? Did it feel like walking around the world with a cloak of stones you couldn’t take off? That seemed impossibly terrible. Yet when I looked at Aunt Esther, it didn’t seem like she carried an unbearable weight of loss. I found myself watching her constantly, looking for signs underneath her sparkling eyes that she was filled with pain.

Who knew I would face the same loss as Aunt Esther half a century later? That little girl I was had no idea that one day I would hear the same whispers follow me as I walked out of the room. I wish Aunt Esther was still here so I could ask her more about her experience with grief. I wish I’d asked her about Allan more. But like the rest of my family (and most people in general), I mistakenly thought bringing up her son would make her sad. I didn’t understand then that grievers love to talk about the ones we’ve lost.

Thinking back on it, I wonder if Aunt Esther and I might be similar. She was joyful despite her pain. Sure, you never “get over” the loss of a child, or the loss of anyone (or anything) that is profoundly part of your heart and soul. But that cloak of stones is optional. It can take a while, but if you are willing to go into the fire of your pain with support, if you are willing to face it and feel it to heal it, you will be set free. You, too, will be the phoenix rising from the ashes.

When I was creating the phoenix logo for this retreat, I wrote a sentence underneath that summed up my intention for the journey I had planned for us: “Only from the ashes of who we were can we rise to become who we are meant to be.”

That’s what grief has done for me. Because I was willing to go all the way into the fire of my loss, I came out transformed. I am a more tapped-in, tuned-in, grace-filled, and authentic version of myself. I am committed to helping others who want to learn to do the same. And I am finding so much purpose in the transformation I have been able to help deliver to hundreds of grievers since I started this work.

Last Sunday, at the end of our time together, I stood before these 31 beautiful women and listened to them share, one by one, the healing that happened for them. In just a weekend of beautiful, supported, inspiring work, they, too, were willing to step into the fire, let go of what no longer served them, and begin healing. They, too, are willing to let go of their cloak of stones.

What about you? Are you willing to let go? If so, please follow me @griefhealingcollective on Instagram and Facebook, where I’ll be sharing more guidance and inspiration for healing from loss. We have more retreats and healing experiences coming too, which I will include there, as well as at the bottom of my blogs, as registration opens. I hope to see you there!

Laura

Shopping Cart