Change, Grief, and the Quiet Between

Change is inevitable.

This past week, I stepped back—from friends and family, routines, social media, and habits. I needed space to reset. Instead, I focused on my goals, my workouts, and my immediate family. For a moment,

I questioned myself—was I out of sorts, or was something just… off?

But this week, as I began setting my intentions, I asked myself a different question: What do I truly need—emotionally, spiritually, and physically?

I am limiting social media and digital distractions. I have projects to complete, and I am staying committed to my workouts. More importantly, I am allowing myself to feel—fully and honestly.

Transition is… still transition. And right now, I feel like I’m floating in the unknown. That part is hard. I’ve always handled change well, but the unknown—that’s different. This is a new chapter, a new adventure, and it comes with unfamiliar emotions.

Today, I went on a walk with my dog to one of my favorite places—what I call my parents’ hike. It’s a space that holds meaning. It was cool, cloudy, and quiet. Being a Monday, there weren’t many people around.

We walked in silence.

Geese stood watch at the hilltops, and Mountain Blue Birds seemed to join us along the way. The stillness, the chirping—it all created space for something I didn’t realize I needed: release. Stress, tension, prayer… it all found its way out.

Nature has always been my medicine. It grounds me. It centers me. My husband recognizes that, too.

Sometimes he joins us; other times, it’s just Winnie and me—and that’s enough.

And then it clicked…

It’s not that I’m out of sorts, and it’s not the planets. It’s grief.

I recently watched a show about grief, and something in me shifted. My parents are gone. My mom’s anniversary is approaching. Retirement is on the horizon. There is so much change happening at once, and I realized—I need to let myself feel it.

Not to wallow. Not to stay stuck.

But to move through it.

I’m not standing still—I’m on a river, letting the current carry me toward what’s next. Toward a new version of myself.

Spring reminds me that rebirth is natural. The weather is changing, the world is waking up—and so am I.

Healing doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes, it looks like stillness. Like walking. Like breathing. Like letting yourself feel everything you’ve been holding in.

My dog deserves his hikes.And I deserve to heal.

So I will continue to find my peace—through nature, through movement, through mindfulness.

Meditation is just as essential as food. And taking care of my body—fueling it well—allows me to care for my mind and my heart.

This is my season of becoming.