Making room for sadness,
remembering those we love,
and finding comfort in the changing seasons.
My father died on October 31, three years ago, just two days before his 79th birthday. As another anniversary of his death approaches, I've been thinking about him, the good, the bad and everything-in-between memories, and about the ways grief continues to be part of my life.
His death came at a time of year when many of us are remembering those we've lost. Halloween is followed by All Saints' Day, and in many cultures and traditions, these days are set aside to honor those who have died and celebrate the ways their lives continue to touch ours. For me, this time of year has become especially meaningful. As October comes to a close, I find myself remembering my father, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with sadness, and often with both.
Autumn has a way of drawing our attention to change. The days grow shorter, the air becomes cooler, and the trees begin releasing the leaves that have sheltered them through spring and summer. On my walks, I've been noticing the colors, the fallen leaves gathering along the paths, and the changing light. There's something comforting about watching nature move through these transitions without resistance or urgency. The trees don't hold on to their leaves because they're afraid of what comes next. They simply move through the seasons.
Of course, our human experiences of change and loss are much more complicated. We don't always welcome transitions, and we certainly don't always feel ready for them. But spending time outdoors, in reciprocity with nature, reminds me that change is woven into the world around us, and that even as things shift, life continues.
There are moments when I find myself thinking about the last years of my father’s life and what I learned from being his daughter as he grew older. I've come to appreciate that I don't have to do anything with those feelings. I don't have to push them away, explain them, or try to turn them into something positive. And perhaps that's where I'd like us to begin this month, with the idea that grieving is not separate from caring for ourselves. Sometimes, making room for sadness, disappointment, longing, and remembrance is an important part of our wellness.
What Grief Has Been Teaching Me
Some of you may know that, in addition to my work as a health and wellness coach, I'm also an end-of-life doula and hospice volunteer. For those who aren't familiar with the role, an end-of-life doula is someone who provides nonmedical emotional, practical, and spiritual support to individuals and families as they navigate serious illness, dying, and death.
My work may involve helping someone think about how they want to spend the time they have remaining, supporting conversations about their wishes, listening to stories about their lives, or helping family members prepare for the changes and losses they know are coming. Sometimes that means talking about death and what it might look like. Other times, it means making space for the sadness, uncertainty, fear, or even relief that can accompany the anticipation of losing someone we love. And sometimes it means simply sitting together, without feeling the need to fill the silence.
Through my hospice volunteer work, I've had opportunities to spend time with individuals whose lives have changed significantly because of illness. I've listened to stories, shared ordinary moments, and been reminded that even when someone's world becomes smaller, their need for companionship, dignity, laughter, and connection remains.
These experiences have shaped how I think about wellness. They've reminded me that being well doesn't necessarily mean being free from sadness, illness, uncertainty, or loss. We can be experiencing difficult things and still find moments of comfort, connection, and meaning.
I've also learned that grief often begins long before someone dies. We may grieve the changes we're witnessing in someone we love, the conversations we may never have, or the future we imagined sharing. This is sometimes called anticipatory grief, and it can be especially difficult because we're trying to remain present with someone while also imagining life without them.
When I accompany individuals and families through these experiences, I'm not there to take away their sadness or tell them how to grieve. I try to help create a space where they can talk openly, ask questions, share memories, and acknowledge whatever they're feeling. Some families want to talk about their fears. Others want to spend time remembering happier days. Some find comfort in planning rituals or meaningful ways to honor their loved one, while others aren't ready for those conversations.
There's no single way to prepare for loss, just as there's no single way to grieve afterward.
My own experience of losing my father continues to inform this work, too. I know what it's like to miss someone, to have a memory unexpectedly bring tears, and to realize that the relationship doesn't simply disappear when the person dies. It changes, and we find our own ways of carrying it forward.
All of this has strengthened my belief that wellness and grief can be companions. We don't have to wait until we're finished grieving to care for ourselves, and we don't have to stop grieving in order to experience joy.
Giving Ourselves Permission to Feel
Many of us have spent much of our lives learning how to keep going, even when we're hurting. We go to work, care for our families, show up for our communities, and attend to responsibilities that don't disappear simply because we're sad or overwhelmed.
For many women, there's often an additional expectation that we'll be strong, resilient, dependable, and available to others. And while there's much to honor in the strength that has carried us through difficult times, I sometimes wonder whether we've also learned to associate strength with keeping our feelings to ourselves.
What if we gave ourselves permission to be strong and vulnerable at the same time?
We can be grateful for our lives and still feel sadness about what we've lost. We can laugh with friends and miss someone terribly. We can feel relief after a loved one's long illness and still experience profound grief. We can even feel anger toward someone we loved and wish they were still here.
Our feelings don't always fit neatly into categories, and they don't always make sense to us. Sometimes grief shows up as tears, but other times it feels like irritability, fatigue, restlessness, loneliness, or simply not feeling quite like ourselves.
And grief isn't always connected to death. We may be grieving the end of a marriage, changes in our health, the loss of a friendship, a parent's declining independence, or a life that looks different from the one we imagined. As we move through midlife and beyond, many of us experience transitions that deserve acknowledgment, even when others don't recognize them as losses.
I've been thinking about how often we try to move ourselves, or one another, past difficult feelings. We want to feel better, and when someone we care about is hurting, we naturally want to help. But one of the lessons I'm continuing to learn through my work as an end-of-life doula is that not every difficult experience needs to be fixed.
Sometimes what we need most is permission to feel what we're feeling and the comfort of knowing we don't have to do it alone.
Our Emotional Lives Are Part of Our Wellness
When we talk about wellness, we often focus on what we're eating, how much we're moving, whether we're sleeping well, and how we're managing stress. Those things matter, of course, but I've come to believe that caring for our emotional lives deserves just as much attention.
Think about what happens when you're worried or anxious. Perhaps your shoulders tighten, your stomach feels unsettled, or you have trouble sleeping. Or maybe you've noticed how physically exhausting sadness can be, even on days when you haven't done very much. Our emotions and our bodies are connected.
Researchers have explored what happens when we try to hide our emotional reactions. In one study, psychologists James Gross and Robert Levenson found that suppressing emotional expression during emotional experiences was associated with increased physiological activation. In other words, appearing calm on the outside doesn't necessarily mean our bodies are experiencing calm on the inside.
That doesn't mean we need to share every feeling or that keeping something private is unhealthy. Sometimes we need time, privacy, or distance before we're ready to talk. And sometimes taking a break from painful feelings is exactly what we need. But I do think there's value in learning to recognize and name what we're experiencing rather than continually pretending it isn't there.
Maybe that sounds like saying to ourselves, "I'm feeling sad today," or "I think I'm missing someone," or "I'm angry about what happened." Sometimes we may not even know what we're feeling, and that's okay, too. We can begin by noticing what's happening in our bodies, taking a few moments to sit quietly, writing in a journal, or talking with someone we trust. And if the feelings become overwhelming, we can give ourselves permission to step away, take a walk, call a friend, or seek additional support. Caring for ourselves doesn't mean forcing ourselves to sit with pain longer than we're able.
What matters is that we begin treating our emotions as part of our lives rather than something we need to hide or overcome.
Finding Comfort in the Natural World
One of the places I often turn when I need time to reflect is nature. I've come to appreciate how much the natural world can offer us when we're willing to slow down and pay attention. There's something about walking among trees, sitting near water, or simply noticing the movement of clouds that helps bring me back to the present moment. I don't have to accomplish anything or arrive at some new understanding. I can simply be there, noticing what's around me and how I'm feeling.
Autumn offers so many reminders that change is a natural part of life. Leaves change color and fall, gardens begin to rest, and the landscape gradually becomes quieter. The bare branches reveal things that were hidden during the fullness of summer, and the shorter days invite us to reconsider our own rhythms. I don't think nature asks us to find a lesson in every loss. But it can remind us that we belong to a world that is constantly changing, and that we don't have to resist every transition or make sense of everything we're experiencing.
When we're grieving, spending time outdoors may offer a little breathing room. The sound of leaves beneath our feet, the warmth of sunlight on our faces, or the feeling of cool air against our skin can help us notice where we are, even when our thoughts are somewhere else.
And we don't need to travel to a forest or take a long hike to experience this. We can sit on a porch, visit a neighborhood park, walk along a familiar street, or spend a few moments looking out a window. The invitation is simply to notice. Perhaps you'll see a tree that's beginning to shed its leaves, hear birds gathering before their migration, or notice how the light changes as the afternoon comes to an end. You might find that these small moments offer comfort, or perhaps they simply give you a place to be with your feelings without needing to explain them.
Nature won't take away our grief, but our surroundings can offer a sense of steadiness and companionship as we move through it.
The Grief We Carry Together
Lately, I've also been thinking about the grief we carry as communities.
There's so much happening in the world that can leave us feeling sad, angry, helpless, or exhausted. We witness and experience violence, war, displacement, injustice, and suffering, sometimes from thousands of miles away. We worry about our families, our neighbors, and the future we're leaving for younger generations.
For many of us, especially those whose communities have experienced generations of discrimination, exclusion, or violence, some of this grief is connected to a much longer history. We may carry sadness about what our parents and grandparents endured, concern about what's happening in our communities today, or a sense of loss when familiar places and traditions begin to disappear.
Sometimes we don't recognize these feelings as grief because no one close to us has died. There may be no funeral to attend, no sympathy cards, and no gathering where we can openly acknowledge what's been lost. But that doesn't mean the grief isn't real.
I've been reflecting on the ways our families and communities have traditionally cared for one another during difficult times. There were meals prepared for grieving families, visits from neighbors, church gatherings, songs, prayers, and stories shared around kitchen tables. Sometimes someone simply showed up, sat down, and stayed awhile. Those traditions remind me that grief has never been something we were meant to carry entirely on our own.
Dr. Maya Angelou spoke about the importance of being a rainbow in someone else's cloud. I love that image because it reminds me that we don't always need to make someone's sadness disappear. Sometimes we simply need to be there, offering kindness, companionship, or a little light while they're finding their way.
And when we're experiencing collective grief, that sense of community becomes especially important. We may not be able to change everything that's happening around us, but we can acknowledge one another's pain, create spaces where difficult feelings can be expressed, and find ways to care for our neighbors.
Just as importantly, we can allow others to care for us. We don't always have to be the ones holding everyone else together.
Making Room for Grief as the Holidays Approach
As we move toward November and December, many of us will begin preparing for family gatherings, travel, celebrations, and traditions. But the holidays can also bring our losses into sharper focus. An empty chair at the table, a familiar recipe, or a holiday song can remind us of someone who's missing. And sometimes we're grieving changes that have nothing to do with death. Our families may look different. Our relationships may have shifted. We may no longer have the energy or desire to celebrate in the ways we once did.
This year, perhaps we can give ourselves permission to approach the holidays differently. We might continue a tradition that brings comfort, create a new one, or decide that something we've done for years no longer serves us. We might choose a smaller gathering, spend more time outdoors, prepare a meal that connects us to our family history, or simply acknowledge that this season feels different.
And if we're spending time with someone who's grieving, perhaps we can resist the urge to cheer them up or tell them how they ought to feel. We can ask how they're doing, invite them to share a memory, or simply let them know we're thinking about them.
Wellness doesn't require us to be cheerful all the time. Sometimes caring for ourselves means making room for what is difficult, even as we remain open to moments of joy.
A Full Moon Invitation: Sitting With What We Carry
As the full moon arrives, I'd like to invite us into a few moments of reflection. Not to release our grief or force ourselves to find closure, but to notice what we're carrying and how we might care for ourselves with greater compassion.
If you're able, consider taking a slow walk outdoors. It doesn't need to be long or take you anywhere special. Perhaps you visit a nearby park, walk through your neighborhood, or spend a little time in your garden. If going outdoors isn't possible, find a comfortable place near a window where you can notice the sky, trees, or changing light.
As you settle in, notice what draws your attention. Perhaps it's the sound of leaves beneath your feet, the shape of a tree, or the feeling of the air against your skin. Allow yourself to be present without needing to accomplish anything.
You might gently ask yourself:
Who or what have I been missing lately?
What feelings have I been too busy, or perhaps too reluctant, to acknowledge?
Is there a memory that brings both sadness and comfort?
What might I need from myself or from my community right now?
You don't need to answer every question. You might simply sit with one, write a few thoughts in a journal, or allow a memory to come forward. And if you'd like, consider reaching out to someone who shares a memory with you. Tell a story. Say the person's name. Ask how they're doing. Sometimes remembering together helps us feel a little less alone.
As October comes to a close, I'll be remembering my father and the three years that have passed since his death. I'll also be thinking about the people I've had the privilege of accompanying through my hospice volunteer work and as an end-of-life doula, and the many ways they've helped me understand what it means to be present with another person. These experiences continue to remind me that grief isn't something we necessarily leave behind. It's something we learn to live alongside, sometimes quietly and sometimes with more difficulty than we expected.
I hope we'll give ourselves permission to make room for whatever feelings come this season, and perhaps spend a little time outdoors, allowing the changing landscape to remind us that we belong to something larger than ourselves. We don't have to stop missing someone to continue living fully. We don't have to turn every sadness into a lesson or every loss into an opportunity for growth. Sometimes we can simply acknowledge that we loved, that something mattered, and that we're still learning how to live with its absence.
And perhaps that's one of the quieter ways we care for ourselves.
Two Healing Soups for the Autumn Season
Black-Eyed Pea and Collard Greens Soup
Prep: 15 minutes · Cook: 30–35 minutes · Serves: 6
A hearty, plant-based soup inspired by Southern food traditions, combining black-eyed peas, collard greens, vegetables, and warming seasonings.
Ingredients
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 celery stalks, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 teaspoon smoked paprika
½ teaspoon dried thyme
¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (optional)
2 cans (15 ounces each) black-eyed peas, drained and rinsed
1 can (14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes
5 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
3 cups chopped collard greens, stems removed
1 tablespoon apple cider vinegar
Black pepper and salt to taste
Directions
Warm the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion, carrots, and celery, cooking for about 5–7 minutes until softened.
Stir in the garlic, smoked paprika, thyme, and cayenne, cooking for another minute.
Add the black-eyed peas, tomatoes, and vegetable broth. Bring to a gentle boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 15 minutes.
Add the collard greens and continue simmering for 10–15 minutes, until tender.
Stir in the apple cider vinegar, season to taste, and serve warm.
A little extra comfort: Serve with a piece of homemade cornbread. This soup tastes wonderful the following day, too.
. Sweet Potato, Carrot, and Ginger Soup
Prep: 15 minutes · Cook: 30 minutes · Serves: 4–6
A smooth, gently spiced soup featuring sweet potatoes, carrots, and ginger. It's easy to prepare and particularly comforting on cooler autumn evenings.
Ingredients
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium onion, diced
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon freshly grated ginger
2 medium sweet potatoes, peeled and cubed
3 medium carrots, chopped
4 cups low-sodium vegetable broth
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
½ cup unsweetened coconut milk (optional)
Salt and black pepper to taste
Toasted pumpkin seeds for garnish (optional)
Directions
Heat the olive oil in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook for about 5 minutes until softened.
Add the garlic and ginger, stirring for another minute.
Add the sweet potatoes, carrots, vegetable broth, cinnamon, and nutmeg.
Bring to a boil, reduce the heat, and simmer for 20–25 minutes until the vegetables are tender.
Carefully blend the soup with an immersion blender until smooth. Alternatively, allow it to cool slightly and blend in batches using a countertop blender.
Stir in the coconut milk if using, gently reheat, and season to taste.
A little extra comfort: Sprinkle with toasted pumpkin seeds and serve with warm whole-grain bread. The natural sweetness of the vegetables pairs beautifully with the ginger.