Grief from loss, diagnosis, betrayal–all the rocking emotions that throw our lives off kilter. We stuff them away or numb with food, alcohol, drugs, sex, work, and denial.

HOPE is when you realize you can survive within the turmoil of the pain and eventually experience joy along, next to, within the pain.

It’s sitting with grief and letting HOPE be bigger than it.

Let my HOPE be bigger than my grief.

That took a long time.

16 years and counting. Counting because HOPE is a daily practice; an action word.

Please sit with me while I explain.

16 years ago, on July 4, 2008, my 12-year-old son was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL). He died four months later through complications from the chemotherapy that was supposed to save him.

Nick was supposed to be an almost 29-year-old technology teacher who taught swim lessons, most likely had a wife and children.

I can only imagine.

An avid reader, creative, Lego-loving swimmer, and big brother, Nick exuded effervescent joy and charisma.

When Nick died, a part of my heart disintegrated.

Poof.

Vanished.

I didn’t want to be in this world without him. Even with another child–the pain was too deep, too sharp and I constantly bled.

I struggled for years with numbing, distraction, and self-sabotage. Constantly moving and doing so as not to feel. Using food to stuff the emotions that threatened to explode.

Through it all I journaled.

I sporadically wrote during his cancer journey but It was too exhausting. I was too raw. It wasn’t until I finally sat still (was forced to sit because my abused body broke down) that I connected with my feelings.

Pen to Paper.

Heart releasing toxins.

Some of the jagged feelings like pain and sadness crumbled like dry clumps of soil. Others like guilt and loss were heavy blocks that could be lifted for a while or moved from my vision so I saw life–the living.

HOPE fluttered in.

Me and Nick—First day of school. 11 years old.

I wrote to Nick. I still do. Reflecting. Remembering. Resigning myself to feel.

Only in the feeling could I begin Healing.

My Journal is my Pause Place.

It supports me day or night. Sometimes it offers answers if I listen close enough. Writing in it eases my anger, pain, fear, longing, sorrow and despair.

It lifts me in HOPE, JOY, POSSIBILITY and carries me back from the depths of grief.

Pause Place is the act of sitting in stillness and being with whatever you’re dealing with at the moment. Knowing your journal is with you.

In this Pause Place, I share my journey of grief and HOPE, what has worked or not along the way and how it’s a continual practice.

It’s the practice of walking alongside grief to create space for HOPE.

If you’re called to share your story, I will hold space for you.

If you have questions, please ask.