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Deep in the solitude and isolation of lockdown, my grief and everything I’ve lost in my life resurfaced.
In response, I wrote, prayed, and created.
I’m still returning to some pieces as they are raw. And let’s face it, I’m only now able to face what I wrote in lockdown.
Grief and trauma can be delicately entwined. Writing can be a somatic therapy on its own—a catharsis like no other.
Long before I became a healer, I was a writer. My broken heart and wounds led me to my work. My writing and therapy led to my healing. I am aware that this continues to be the case.
It is said that healing is not linear. (And it is true.) In the end, it is a transformative and life-altering experience.
I wrote the following poem in solitude (during the lockdown). In complete isolation, I once again faced what held me back—my pain, grief, and trauma resurfaced.
Being brutally honest with myself and the world is frightening, yet I’m ready to shed the old and step into my light. I’m ready to let go!
Writing can be painful; change can be as well. My hope in sharing this is that you, too, can step into your truth—shed yesterday’s pain and sorrows.
Before you read the following, take a pause and come back to how you feel in your body. Breathe deeply, and let go:
Presence is felt here!
You left the gate open in your hurry.
I jumped on the bus as you flew by.
The thoughts that invade this rest.
Breathe into this.
Feeling the grass, I ground and connect coming back into this body.
I remind myself that the brain and everything it does is for safety.
I didn’t ask for this; I did not welcome it in.
I did my best, and yet after all these years, this still keeps coming.
I work with light.
I work with shadows.
In stillness, I begin again.
Contemplative morning turns to noon and day to night, and so it begins again.
Will the next chapter be the same?
I don’t want to stay here in this frozen world of uncertainty.
I want to love and be loved.
I want to have a life in this world.
I want to be free, and freedom comes with a presence that is felt.
God understands, and he is near.
I am his daughter.
He asks, “What do you really fear?
This world, my love, is filled with trauma.
Yours is a gift to move through, for in doing so, my dear, you heal yourself and a small part of the world.”
Presence is felt here, and I offer gratitude in my prayer
I breathe, “I’m here.”