With the anniversary of my husband’s death on the horizon, I have found myself needing to surrender like never before. Almost a year has passed, and at times I feel like I am no better off than I was in the days just after. Conceptually I know that there is no set amount of time I will feel lost and alone. There is no date on the calendar I can circle and schedule my rebirth into a way of life free of the burden and worry of unexpected pain. I know this grief will be like a partner, present in my life, yet with its own agenda. In this way, it’s almost as though my relationship with my grief is the most prominent relationship in my life. I am learning to get to know my grief, to dance with it, to understand it, and to let it live, not unlike getting to know a new love or a newborn child.

Both my boys’ names were chosen long before their conception. Orlando was named after my husband’s dear friend, who passed away and left a lasting impression on his heart. Another man who left an impression on my husband and I would be the namesake of our second son, Eddie.

In Hawaii, the story of Eddie Aikau is the stuff of legend. A pillar of sacrifice, compassion, and kuleana, or responsibility, Eddie’s story lives in the hearts of all who hear it. Growing up here, he was almost a mythical figure. As a kid, dreaming of being a cool surfer girl, I would see pictures of him riding the iconic waves of the North Shore of Oahu and be transported into a vision of what could be. The tagline on seemingly every bumper sticker or store window in the state evokes a sense of possibility, potential, and duty. “Eddie Would Go” imparts more wisdom than the virtues of self-discipline. It isn’t just about personal achievement. It means something more profound, more significant, and more divine. The essence of Eddie Aikau and his legacy is in personal sacrifice. In doing what you know needs to be done in service of others.

If you don’t know the story of Eddie’s fateful voyage, I suggest you watch the ESPN documentary on his life. This documentary, narrated by Josh Brolin, made my husband fall in love with his story. He was moved to tears by the native Hawaiian big wave surfer who saved countless lives as a lifeguard at Waimea Bay. Joe believed Eddie Aikau to be a Buddha, an embodiment of compassion and service. He fell in love with the story of the man who paddled for help on his surfboard when the rest of the crew of the voyaging canoe Hokule’a was stranded in a storm. The crew was found and rescued after hours at sea, but Eddie was never seen again. It is believed that he remains a guardian angel of the waters of Hawaii, taking care of those who are in need of help.

The night my son Eddie was born, my husband took our older son for a walk. They often rode scooters around the marina where we lived to see the boats and catch the sea lions snoozing on the docks. When they got back, they told me the sweetest story of synchronicity. Joe lived in synchronicity, he always had tales of how perfectly the universe arranges itself for our amazement, and this story was exactly that. As the sun set, they met a couple we were familiar with as neighborly acquaintances. Joe explained to them I was in labor, and we were going to name the boy Eddie. “Like Eddie Aikau?” our neighbor asked.

“The same,” Joe replied. The story that followed was nothing short of remarkable.

This neighbor was a long-distance swimmer. She told Joe about her first trip to Hawaii when she went out for a swim, looked up, and couldn’t see land. She described the dialogue in her head and the inevitable fear she was trying not to let overcome her. She told him how in her confusion, she was surprised when a nice man on a surfboard showed up and pointed her in the right direction. “Land is that way,” he said. She explained to Joe how relieved she was but also surprised to see a surfer out there. Usually, surfers would be close to where the waves are breaking. What was he doing so far out? She told Joe that it was only a few days later when she saw a picture of Eddie Aikau and realized that was the man she saw in the water.

Space, time, and thought are not the separate things they seem. We weave through them, phasing in and out of distant realities and lifetimes like rainbows. We meet people; they change our lives. Then with our lives changed, we mirror those lessons outward into infinity and influence countless others. Life is a beautiful concert of a vast intelligence we can never hope to comprehend. But I no longer want to comprehend it. Life is to be lived, and living is defined by death. We come, and then we go. And while it can be very painful, there is so much beauty to behold. We are born, and then we die, but in between those two extremes, we talk, hug, play, cry, work, dream, and love.

(4 min read)

It's commonly accepted that a superiority complex is rooted in low self-esteem. We teach our children that when someone picks on them, it is usually because that person feels bad about themselves and thinks that putting someone down will help them feel better. It's less commonly accepted that the opposite can also be true. If you're walking around with an inferiority complex, you think you're better than everyone else.

Looking for every event in your life to prove how terrible you are, is seated in your own need to cling to your uniqueness. If everything you come across means you are inadequate and not worthy of whatever you think you want, the focus is on YOU. If the constant focus is on the self, there is a deeply hidden sense that this self is somehow more important than any other experience. If that self has a notion of its potential to do amazing things, but the experience does not match that construct of arriving at that potential, the subsequent display of self-loathing, self-hatred, and even self-harm can ensue.

When we love ourselves so much and cling to this notion of self so much, witnessing ourselves enduring circumstances of pain and inadequacy is too much to bear. We say things like: "if I'm so good at what I do, how come I'm not on the Forbes 30 under 30?" "How come I'm not happily married with two kids by 35?" "how come I haven't received the recognition I deserve?" "Why haven't I... I should be..." insert your projection of happiness and success here. You may have done this: you see someone in your field has achieved a goal you'd like to achieve. You immediately toil over how someone less talented than you may have reached that level. You then berate yourself endlessly for some deeply ingrained and permanent yet undescribable flaw as the reason you could never have that. You tell yourself, "I'm just not good enough, and I never will be," as a familiar cascade of emotions washes over you.

I've been privy to my hyper-fixation of my inadequacies for quite some time, but my husband's death made me turn a more observant eye on it. Soon after he died, this aspect of my psyche started kicking into high gear. So much so that it surprised me. My husband had just died, yet I was worried about my self-esteem? My husband had just died, and all I could think about was how terrible I was? How I'd never be successful in my career? How I was a terrible mother for letting my sons watch their screens for a few hours so I could binge-watch reruns of The Office? How awful I was for not doing the dishes or not drinking enough water. (Because everyone knows that people worthy of love aren't dehydrated) Surely there were more important and profound feelings to be had after losing the love of my life? Surely my sadness over losing him was more important than my sadness that I hadn't established myself in a more lucrative career?

Upon deeper reflection, I discovered I was using his death as further proof that I was, in fact, inherently (uniquely) flawed and, therefore, shouldn't even try. When Joe was alive, our being together provided me a convenient shield from my obsessive self-doubt. Of course, when memorializing loved ones, we often highlight the best of them, but there is no exaggeration when I say Joe was kind, successful, handsome, and loved by almost everyone who met him. He was the life of the party, generous and deeply wise. Joe was an incredible man, and he loved me. He chose me. If a man like that could love me, then maybe I wasn't as much of a piece of shit as I thought.

But then that man died. That shield dissolved. And I was left with the work of putting together a self-image without him. My better half was gone, so it stands to reason that what was left was the worse half. My obsession with seeing my faults in everything took center stage because I was so involved with the concept of a truly existent "self" and the increasingly intolerable circumstances that "self" found unfolding around her.

Laying in my bed in the middle of the night, silently sobbing to not wake the boys, I realized something. I needed to let go. I needed to let go of the image of myself as it related to Joe. If being with Joe meant something about me, I needed to let go of who I thought that was. I needed to stop clinging to a self-concept because that self no longer exists. In a way, I needed to let go of Joe. So I turned inward to honor the start of this process. One of the things that infuriated me most about my husband was when I was expressing my feelings of low self-esteem, he would always explain the Buddhist concept of non-self. He would go deeply and joyfully into his passionate refrain of releasing ourselves from self-clinging. He would tell me the solution was to do something for someone else and stop thinking about myself. It infuriated me because I wanted him to join me in my self-cherishing. I wanted him to affirm my feeble sense of self. But he wouldn't because he knew the truth.

The house of cards upon which we build our sense of self is so delicate that one breath of truth can send it tumbling down, yet we defend it ferociously. Maintaining a notion of a truly existent self means we work endlessly to collect only the experiences we deem desirable and fight endlessly to repel those experiences we find undesirable. It's no wonder we are tired. 

An influencer I am only slightly jealous of posted recently about taking responsibility. She said that only after she took full responsibility for everything in her life, did she start to see the manifestations of her full potential. This is a concept I am familiar with. It’s a concept I’ve taught. It’s a concept I, for the most part, agree with. But I’d be lying if I said it felt like the truth in the wake of my husband’s death. Something about this premise seems off, so I decided to unpick it further.

The truth is, I lost my taste for creating what I want. Manifestation used to be one of my passions. Since I was 17 and first learned the basic principles of how our thoughts, feelings, and actions participate in giving ideas physical form, I felt I was remembering something my soul knew and had forgotten. Merging this idea with my lifelong dedication to learning the intricacies of the experience of having a physical human body was natural and inspiring. But after my husband died. None of that seemed relevant. In fact, I now find myself gratefully on the opposite side of the spectrum.

The most challenging moments in my grief journey are when I think about what should or shouldn’t be happening. That my boys “shouldn’t” have to grow up without their father. That I “shouldn’t” have to face the world’s challenges alone. That my husband “shouldn’t’ have died so young. The moments I deny reality and try to superimpose some selfish notion of how the universe should operate are the moments of deepest pain - Imagine the struggle of trying to get the earth to spin the other way and the pain and self-loathing that would follow if your inability to do so was the proof of your inadequacy. Fighting nature, fighting the way things are, is an endless battle that ends in inevitable heartbreak. 

What you want to happen is insignificant in the flow of a multiverse comprised of everything, everywhere, all at once. The true secret to “manifestation” is not trying to create what we want but instead getting quiet enough to listen to the clues of what the universe wants and surrendering to its desires. Sometimes the universe’s nudges feel like spontaneous desires; sometimes, they are lifelong callings that keep hitting us over the head when we are too ignorant or too fearful of acting on them. The only thing we can be responsible for in this premise is how open we are to listening to the flow of nature. I am not responsible for my husband’s death, but I was responsible for appreciating the divinity and preciousness of our short time together. I was not responsible for my husband’s death, but I am responsible for accepting what losing him means for myself and our boys.

This understanding brings me to the title of this post, “Everything happens for a reason”: one of the cliche things you don’t want to say to someone who is grieving. But honestly, understanding what this truly means has given me great comfort. Maybe it needs a re-phrase; everything happens in accordance with nature. Everything happens, exactly as it happens, in the symphony of this matrix. We label it good or bad, but it is greater than logic. It’s greater than the pixelation of our thinking brains. This means that everything, including our struggle to create what we want out of the world, happens just as it should, and our only responsibility is to be aware of it.

It is my responsibility to bring my awareness to the mindless numbing. It is my responsibility to bring my awareness to the consistent thoughts of self-doubt and realize that just because they are consistent doesn’t make them true. My only responsibility is to turn my attention to the primordial purity of all that was, is, and ever will be. To turn my awareness to the fact that everything is as it is, and though it may be painful, it is just as it should be. In this way, I am responsible for only the realization that I, and everything else I experience, is merely an individualized expression of Universal Truth, neither inherently existent nor non-existent, and that is all the reason or responsibility needed.

Brace yourself; this post will be hard to read. There are several reasons for this. One, it is a highly triggering and controversial topic. Ever since the New York Times posed the question, “should babies be allowed in first class” our most primal and visceral arguments have come out on both sides of the argument of whether or not babies should be allowed on planes at all.

I will spare you the agony of wondering what my opinion on the matter is and skip to the endpoint: Have compassion for others because you just don’t know what they are going through. I decided to present my central point first, in case you would like to skip the next part, because now I will recount the details of the worst flight of my life.

I got the call that my husband had died on March 24th, 2022. In a blur, my friends and family were scrambling around me to figure out how I would get back to LA from Maui, where I was visiting to help care for my ailing father. At that point in my dad’s treatment, I was one of his last lines of defense. Taking him to the hospital daily, talking to and translating doctor’s orders. Managing the expectations of his landlord, as his living situation was precarious. All the while with two boys under 5 on my hip. It was a nightmare. And now I had to drop all that and tend to the most vicious of monsters. Getting back to LA to manage the aftermath of my husband’s death.

Should my best friend come to Maui first to pick us up and return with us? Should my mom come? Should my sister come? How long would they stay? I admit that even remembering these events to write this blog is causing me a tremendous amount of anxiety. A muscle memory of anguish and shock. We decided that my mom would come back with us and that my best friend should stay in LA to answer the question that still haunts me today. Who should pick us up from the airport?

I had decided not to tell my almost 5-year-old about the tragedy until we returned home to LA. Somehow I knew that if I told him while we were still on Maui, he would forever associate this place with his father’s death. Even then, I knew we would eventually move back here to face the future, and I didn’t want this place to be tainted with grief. I thought I should tell him with the stress of travel behind us. But this choice left me with one insurmountable challenge.

Getting on that plane was a complete blur. There was no way I could meticulously pack the diaper bag with the appropriate treats and tricks I usually would. The things I knew could help distract or calm a screaming baby and toddler on a long flight were not things I was worried about. I didn’t have time to buy a “new toy” so that when the restlessness set in, I could bring it out of the bag to spare the other passengers the plight of hearing a baby cry. I didn’t have the foresight to download a few new apps on the tablet to satisfy the boredom that strikes 3.5 hours into a 5-hour flight. There was no way I could prepare other than just to get everyone on that plane. I didn’t have “the favorite snacks” stocked; I had nothing but the knowledge that my husband was dead and that I had to find some way to distract my son from the event I was most dreading. Our arrival at LAX.

From the moment we took our seats, when the plane began to move, my eldest could say only one thing: “We’re on our way home to see Daddy!”

I sat in that seat; it was everything I could do to breathe. How could I face my son? What would I say to him when we landed and daddy wasn’t there?

Each mile we flew made me feel like the walls were crashing in. We were still required to wear masks on the plane at that time, and if there ever was a time I felt like I could not breathe, it was then. The closer we got to LA, the hard it was for me to keep it together. At one point, another passenger asked my mom if I was ok because I was hyperventilating and sweating. We would be landing in a world vastly different from the one we left. A world where my two boys will never again see their father. The last thing on my mind was how to stop my kids from being kids on a plane.

I don’t remember much else of that day. I don’t know whether my baby cried when his ears wouldn’t pop; I don’t remember if anyone looked at us sideways because we were being too loud or bumping the seat in front when trying to get yet another dropped lego off the floor. I do remember the pain of reaching baggage claim and falling into the arms of my best friend while trying to keep it together. I remember arriving home and seeing the apartment just as my husband had left it. I remember my son asking where daddy was as we put on his pajamas. I remember calmly saying, “daddy isn’t here,” as I tucked him into bed and prepared myself for the following morning when I would break the news to him.

The idea that there is even a debate about whether babies should be allowed in first class (and subsequently on planes at all) proves to me that this world is profoundly lacking compassion. Had I been in a place where we could have afforded first-class tickets, why shouldn’t I have been able to have that infinitesimal increase in comfort because I happen to be traveling with people whose brains are still developing? In a world so triggered by the injustices inflicted upon underserved, underrepresented, and less privileged communities, we miss the one that needs us to stand up for them the most. Children are so often treated like second-class citizens. It does not matter if you have chosen to become a parent or not. A mother with a crying child on a flight who seems to be letting her children run amok might be having the worst day of her life, and taking a deep breath from your seat while you give her some grace, is 100% free.

What keeps me up most nights isn’t my grief; it’s my fear.

While I admit that grief exacerbates the fear, it existed long before in different forms. Fear is a tricky thing. It masquerades around as very noble causes. It lurks behind your most joyous endeavors. It morphs and changes to fit the specific jigsaw of your psyche no matter how much work you have done to quell it. It becomes a familiar friend whose absence you somehow miss when absent, and if you leave it behind for any significant amount of time, you search for it again like a lost teddy bear.

Since my husband’s death, my fear has become the poster boy of my own impermanence. It settles in late at night, jolting me awake from an otherwise deep and peaceful sleep. My fear is the producer, director, and star of the horror movie that plays on repeat in my mind’s eye, keeping me awake for hours. A scene plays out behind my closed eyes, desperate for sleep, where I am witness to my own death and the subsequent struggles my two boys would face as orphans.

Given a choice, any mother would choose their own death over the death of one of their children. Mothers of many different species would innately sacrifice even their own lives for the lives of our offspring. This seemingly fundamental reality of motherhood, alongside the bouts of fear I experience periodically, has demanded I ask myself “why.”

Why are we so eager for our children to live? To have a fighting chance at life. What about life makes this chance so important, so imperative we would sacrifice our own?

In the immortal tale of life and love, The Princess Bride, Westly says to his beloved: “Life is pain, Highness; anyone who tells you otherwise is selling something.” The Buddhists have a similar sentiment. The first teaching of Lord Buddha was “There is suffering.” All beings are suffering. Whether the pain of the struggle to survive, the pain of the fear of being hunted, or the pain of the expectation of pain. There is no shortage of ways to experience this fundamental experience of existence. Pain is inevitable. When we become parents, we know that our children will experience pain despite our best efforts. Knowing the inevitable pains of life: loss, humiliation, injustice, and so on, what is it about life that we hold so dear for our children that we could make the ultimate sacrifice for them to have it?

I can think of only one reason. The joys of life make the pain bearable. The happiness of finding true love, expressing our fullest potential, and appreciating our senses’ beauty makes life so precious and fulfilling that we are willing to risk everything for that experience. Yes, I fear a reality where my boys grow up without me, but they would still grow up. Growing up, they would find tenderness and care, love and worthiness in other places, comfort and closeness with other people, and their lives would still be beautiful, deeply meaningful, and, dare I say, happy.

We are willing to die for our children if it gives them a chance to be happy.

Just a chance.

But let’s unpack this a bit further because happiness is vague and elusive. It is fleeting; it comes and goes with the ebb and flow of the very breath. This fleeting nature of happiness demands we discover what is at its core. Some of us spend lifetimes upon lifetimes searching for the meaning of lasting happiness. We pray endlessly on mountaintops, we devote ourselves to a craft, we study the human mind and its endless intricacies, we practice austerities, put our bodies in contorted postures, meditate, ponder and philosophize. Lifetimes dedicated to uncovering the secret to lasting happiness. And the answer? The thing we are all searching for, the cause of happiness? The Buddhists put it very simply: finding a genuine desire that others find happiness. In other words: Compassion for all beings.

A mother’s prayer is the strongest force in this universe. In the yogic teachings, it is said that even God can not oppose the force and power of a mother’s prayer for her child. It IS the guiding force of the universe, more than ego desire, it is the force of creation and its relationship to the created. Unstoppable. Inevitable. All-encompassing. My prayer for my boys is that they live and be happy. But what that means, at the most fundamental level, is that they find a way to have true compassion for every other being. They understand that their actions and intentions thusly affect every other being, and in this way, they will never feel alone.

The first couple weeks of the New Year are upon us, and with that comes a heightened focus on self-care and the inundation of advertisements for related products and services. While I will be the first to tell you that it is imperative to make time during your day to care for yourself, the idea of “self-care” has morphed into a cringey gimmick, often used to sell us products that we don’t need. Yes, you may find changing your morning routine is beneficial to your day, but you don’t need $75 worth of gadgets from Amazon and a subscription to an organic, caffeine-free coffee alternative to do it.

I firmly believe that we must work to fortify our mental and physical well-being before trying to help others. The desire to care for our loved ones is woven into the fabric of human nature – which means constant and continuous self-love is essential to our welfare. Despite what life throws at you at any given moment, you need the tools that will allow you to care for yourself and, in turn, for others. Building and strengthening these tools are acts of self-care and can be achieved without money or access to the internet.

As we know it today, self-care operates from a standard of “not enough.” “You are not enough, so make yourself better with self-care.” How can we properly nurture ourselves if we feel inadequate? Self-care needs to be constant and reliable – regardless of any outside factors. We can’t control how external factors will change, but we can control what’s within.

We give our best from a full cup, but to fill that cup, we must begin by appreciating what we already have. When you accept yourself and the life you lead, you can then start to fill your cup. Only then can you believe you are worthy of the love you are offering yourself. Self-care isn’t about changing anything; it means loving yourself profoundly and appreciating all you have.

It’s unlikely that you will have the consistent time, energy, and motivation to practice self-care for hours a day – so it’s important to notice and take pride in the small acts. Self-care can be as simple as saying “no” to a party invitation if you feel over-extended. It can mean drinking a glass of water before every meal to ensure you stay hydrated. It may look like devoting time to brushing your teeth daily. Self-care is personal and is usually most impactful when taken in baby steps. Feel empowered by what you can do.

Beginning the new year with a laundry list of “self-care” habits you want to adopt can feel daunting. The pressure to succeed on this journey you spent the whole month of December planning for, added to the stress of trying to incorporate ten new activities into your routine, can negatively impact your well-being. It becomes a chore, something you have to guilt yourself into doing, and has the opposite outcome of what you set out to accomplish in the first place – preserving your happiness.

There is no golden standard of self-care, and no one can tell you what it does or does not look like. No measurement or scale can tell you if you are doing “enough.” We are born with an intuition that, if listened to, tells us what we truly need to ensure our contentment.

Building a solid foundation to support ourselves through the good times and the bad is key to navigating this world with strength and sovereignty. That foundation comes from an appreciation of life and is fortified by regular acts of kindness to ourselves. This is actual self-care, not what you can buy in an Instagram ad.

Hopefully, 2022 was my Godzilla.

After losing my father, stepmother, and husband this year, I’m excited to move on from this year. With all the painful memories I have accrued, I had to be actively mindful not to fall into the trap of the New Year. The mentality of “new year new me” or “out with the old, in with the new.” The promise of a dramatic reset to suddenly occur on New Years’ Day, outside of human influence. As if this one day will change our mentality, health, and goals, heal our wounds, or fix our mistakes. 

As I reflect on 2022, I realize more than ever it was an accumulation of the last 3. 2020 and 2021 were traumatic for people worldwide. With the effects of a global pandemic still weighing heavy on us, on top of the difficulties 2022 inevitably brought - it’s understandable that so many were eager for the clock to strike midnight on January 1, 2023. 

Although consistent hopefulness surrounds the turn of every new year, the numerology of this year and the last mark a very real shift in energy.

2022 was a 6 year. (See my earlier blog post on Tantric Numerology). 6 is ruled by the Arcline body - the nucleus of your aura. In the yogic teachings, it is said our destiny is written on the Arcline, and we can re-write it through spiritual devotion. 6 is the number of divinity, spiritual devotion, practice, and service to something greater than our ego. Last year’s closing means in 2023; we entered a 7 year.

While a 6 year is ruled by your Arcline, 7 is governed by the aura itself. The aura is a curative, nurturing, and elevating energy. When an aura is big and robust, it brightens the presence of the individual who possesses it, and they become uplifting and nurturing to those around them. The same goes for the opposite, a weak aura. Whatever energy is run through your aura and is put out into the world will be attracted back to you. To put it simply, what goes around comes around. 

As I write this and hear my 5-year-old practicing spells in his bedroom, a Harry Potter reference springs to mind – think of your aura like a Patronus. It protects you and can also go into the world and interact on your behalf. With 2023 being a 7 year, whatever you are strengthening your aura with, your thoughts, health practices, spiritual practices, or anything you develop to shape your auric field will be highlighted. Whatever energy you fuel yourself with will then go out into the world on your behalf.

The aura, just like the Patronus, is very protective in nature. So, it naturally begs the question, “what can you do to help(protect) others?” When your boundaries are properly set, and your energy field is protected, what you can and what you feel able to do for others becomes vastly more colorful, bigger, and brighter. Setting solid boundaries is imperative in our quests to help those we love because it ensures we do not exhaust ourselves; overextending yourself is not actually giving.

Only when our boundaries are firmly set and strongly grounded can we begin to truly help others. Our boundaries act as a container; once we have a substantial container, we can fill it, and once it’s filled, it can overflow. This is the gift of a balanced 7.

An unbalanced 7, or an unbalanced auric field, leads to burning yourself out for the sake of others. It leads to neglecting yourself to help someone else. That is not truly giving. Unconditional love and support come from a place of emotional safety and set boundaries. We must put on our own oxygen masks before helping someone else. 

In reflecting on the last year, all that I’ve lost, and the turning of numerological energy this new year brings, my only resolution is to fortify my container so that I can give to others. 

I know that I, and many others, still ruminate on the purpose of human grief and suffering. All other emotions have a practical application, but the use of sorrow and misery is less clear. Why do these things exist? The understanding that I, and people of many different belief systems, have come to is the purpose of grief and suffering is to allow us to connect more deeply with other humans. It enables us to empathize more greatly with others so we can be a beacon of hope in their time of need. 

I hope 2023 brings you a year of balance, strength, love, and nourishment of your auras.

Dear Joie,

I am writing from the year 2022, a year for you that is in the seemingly distant future. For you, it is 2013, and you are just about to embark on the next phase of your glorious life. You have had the courage to break free from a relationship that is slowly siphoning off your confidence. You will leave your life in New York, a life you have worked hard to build. A life of eat, sleep, work, repeat, with very little actual eating. You realized this life was unsustainable, and you have decided to move to Los Angeles to find balance. Now you are on the precipice of stepping into something unknown and new. You have made the hard choices you needed to make to nourish your body, work in harmony with life, grow, and live.

I must make one thing very clear: I am proud of you. I need you to know this because even though the coming years will bring tragedy, I would do it all again 1000 times over.

When you get to LA, you will very quickly meet a man. He will become your husband and the father of two sons. He will make you feel like there’s nothing you can’t do. He will make you feel like you belong. It will seem very fast, and you will question whether or not it’s “too fast,” but listen to me when I tell you, go for it 100% and never look back.

You will know him from his smile. The first time you see him, time will slow down exactly as it does in the movies. You will look at him and see your whole life because you both are karmically destined to be together, but not forever. He will make you feel like the only other person on Earth. He will look exactly like the picture you had of your future husband when you were a little girl. You will LAUGH every day because of him. You will wake up in his embrace, but not forever.

Somewhere inside you, you already know this. Somewhere you understand that nothing is forever and that every day is a chance to appreciate the little moments. You have a clear picture of this somewhere in you, so I am not writing to tell you to soak up every moment with him because you will do this already. I am writing to tell you that you must prepare to be a different woman than you imagined.

The love of your life will die and leave you with his two most precious achievements, his sons. You will need to be both mother and father to these children. This man will choose you because somewhere in him, he will know that the mother of his boys will need to endure beyond his death. She will need to not lose herself in her grief. She will need to learn to ask for help; she will need to learn to create spaces of joy and relaxation through her suffering; she will need to provide and nurture, discipline and comfort, challenge and accept. She will need to let go of who she thought she would be to live as she is.

I am writing to tell you that you will not be the woman you think you will be. This might come as a shock. This might make you sad. This might make you feel lost and alone. But that is not my intent. You will not be the woman you think you’ll be because you will be much more. You will be a woman loved by a man so deeply and completely that a part of him will reside in you when he leaves this Earth. You will be both mother and father; you will be both masculine and feminine; you will be the unifying singular point of two distant polarities. You will be the very nucleus of a universe occupied by two tiny minds just starting to find expressions of themselves.

You, Joie, will be loved, and because of this, you will live not as a wife, not as a woman, but as a point of balance.

The holidays can be particularly challenging for those who have experienced significant loss. Happiness is in the air during the holiday season, and that can be suffocating and difficult to stomach for those suffering. While it can be seductive to turn into The Grinch and avoid the holiday cheer altogether, that will only prolong our anguish because the key to happiness is wanting happiness for others. Inversely, the key to suffering is wanting happiness for only ourselves.

It is the Buddhist belief that suffering causes the human psyche to feed into self-cherishing, self-cleaning, and self-importance in a way that makes us cruel, a Grinch or a Scrooge. Self-cherishing and self-cleaning are a function of human life, and we all do both on some level daily. We are all trying to get more of what we believe will make us happy, and we all try to expel the things we think will make us unhappy. A profound loss causes these functions to work on hyperdrive, which fuels our self-importance and turns us into callous and selfish versions of ourselves.

Suffering breeds an inherent feeling of “uniqueness” in those experiencing it – “I am the only one suffering like this” or, “how can someone mistreat me? Don’t they know what I’m going through?” The subconscious feeling of uniqueness and constant focus on oneself doesn’t leave mental space to even think about, let alone desire, the happiness of others- therefore, we continue to suffer. With so much inner turmoil burning inside, it’s easy to say, “bah humbug,” when faced with holiday cheer.

Many of us were introduced to the archetype of The Grinch at a young age. It wasn’t until the most recent version of “The Grinch” that we began to understand why he hated Christmas – he had suffered a significant loss. He was orphaned at a young age and spent the holidays alone. After years in isolation, the Grinch built up walls of loneliness to cope with the tragedies he’d faced. When you experience how easily you can lose something you cherish, you tighten your grip on the things you love and block out anything that will bring you more pain.

Seeing the Whos filled with Christmas joy was simply too much for The Grinch to endure, and his pain was exacerbated by the belief that he could never be happy after his suffering. He chose to isolate himself rather than build relationships that could one day cause him despair. Ultimately, the only thing that brought him true happiness was growing relationships with others by being kind and actively participating in their joy. 

Avoiding this storyline has been a daily struggle for me as I face my first holiday season without my husband. I work hard to ensure my heart remains open and that I share love and joy with others. For the bereft, part of our ability to transcend grief and integrate it into a legacy for the loved one we are grieving is to continue to be kind to others and to remember that our pain is not unique. All beings are suffering, and no one’s pain is any more or less important than our own.

Since becoming a widow, I’ve had to fight the urge to run up to every happy couple I see, shake them violently, and scream, “appreciate each other and what you have every single day because you could lose it in an instant!” Usually, I will calmly resolve myself and say a quick prayer that they have a long and happy life together. Occasionally, a third scenario plays out in which I dive head-first into the pits of jealousy.

Although it doesn’t often happen, when it does, jealousy can be raw and difficult to navigate. Although all humans experience some form of jealousy, not many people discuss it in the context of grief. As I’ve said before, grief is a kaleidoscope comprised of all emotions in the human psyche, jealousy included.

While jealousy still operates the same after a loss, grief subtly alters its nuances. When you feel jealousy towards someone, that indicates that deep down you desire what they have but feel you can’t have it. After reflecting on various encounters with couples that left me feeling green, I realized I wasn’t jealous because of something I wanted that I couldn’t have; I was jealous of something I could have but questioned if I still wanted. I recognized that I didn’t want to be happy without my husband. It wasn’t a matter of if I could or would be happy without him - it was a matter of choosing to do so.

For its believers, Buddhism offers an antidote for jealousy, rooted in reincarnation (which I dive deeper into here). It is believed that all beings have been in the cycle of birth, sickness, old age, and death since “beginningless time,” reincarnating countless times in countless lifetimes. In these myriads of lifetimes, we have all taken turns being each other’s mothers.

**While the Buddhist texts use specific verbiage, one can view the idea of a “mother” as an archetype for selflessness and compassion – anyone can embody that archetype in some way.

With the understanding that we have loved and nurtured all, we also owe tremendous gratitude to all beings for loving and nurturing us in forgotten lifetimes. So, when you feel the heat of jealousy beginning to rise, rejoice that its recipient has something worth envying in this life. Approach others with acceptance, kindness, and a willingness to serve because wouldn’t you do this for the person who raised you?

Karma also plays a role in the Buddhist antidote for jealousy. If someone has something to be jealous of in this life, it is because they did something worthy of merit in a previous life. It is a result of a lifetime, or multiple lifetimes, of caring for others. Everything good and every positive action benefits us, even if we are watching it seemingly outside of ourselves.

In grief, all feelings are valid. The most important thing is not to feel guilt surrounding your emotions. The whole kaleidoscope of grief needs to be felt - we can’t ignore a certain feeling, or it will compound and eventually explode. While we can not control all emotions, we can choose to seek happiness. Will we choose to find joy in a world where our loved ones occupy a different time and space? Will we choose to be happy in a world where we can’t have what we thought we wanted?

When discussing the loss of my husband, the grief associated with that, or how I’m holding up in that particular moment, a question I often receive is, “how are you so strong?” or “how do you do it?”

The following are my tips for navigating through grief with sovereignty and strength or “how I do it.”

1 . Get A Therapist / Find Support

Holding in your grief will slowly deteriorate both your mind and body, so finding an unobjective set of ears upon which you can let it all out is crucial. While this person should be someone you trust and is invested in your well-being, try to find someone who is not also grieving and can give somewhat of an unbiased opinion. Avoid close friends and family, even though your village will flock to you in support.

2. Daily Practice for Your Body

It might be yoga, meditation, or even having a warm glass of water with a lemon when you wake up – any practice that boosts you physically can be used to anchor your body, calm your nervous system and ground yourself in the neutral mind.

3. Journal

Since I found out my husband had passed until now, there have been a million thoughts racing through my head – Good thoughts, anxious ones, plans for the future, memories from the past, etc. These thoughts are important and should be reflected on when you are mentally/physically in a space to do so. When we let intrusive thoughts overwhelm us, our brains process them quickly and then block them off to protect our well-being. Dictating time to write down our thoughts and feelings gives you the power to reflect/process them on your own time.

4. Find A Hobby

For me, it’s golf, but you can pick any hobby that brings joy to your heart and allows you to check out and not think about it. Provide your mind with a small break from its daily grieving.

5. Find A Place Where You Feel Connected to Them

Find a place you can visit that makes you feel close to the one you’ve lost, where you can feel their presence with you, and visit it regularly.

6. Set Boundaries

Be very clear with your voice and your energy. Be clear about what you are and are not willing to do, talk about, accept in your life, etc. If you make plans when you’re feeling good, the day arrives, and you’re not feeling up to it, cancel. It’s vital to inhabit a space where you are comfortable saying, “Actually, I need to stay home today,” without guilt. If birthday parties are triggering to you, know it’s okay to decline an invitation.

7. Remember: You Don’t Owe Anyone Anything

Grieve in your own way, and don’t feel pressured to say, do, or feel anything for someone else’s comfort. You are not obligated to conform to someone else’s idea of grief to honor the one you’ve lost adequately, and it is not your job to comfort others who are grieving. 

(5 min read)

The most important thing I wanted to ensure before telling my oldest son his father had died, was that I had an understandable, repeatable, and truthful answer to the inevitable question, “what happens to someone after they die?” I realize there are so many different views regarding what happens once we die, and the truth will only be revealed to us upon our own deaths, but this is my interpretation of the Tibetan-Buddhist teachings and what I believe to be true. 

The Buddhist beliefs around death hinge on the idea of rebirth, or reincarnation. While the idea of rebirth can be simple and beautiful, the Buddhist teachings are very complex and extensive – I will do my best to describe them in layman’s terms, if the Buddhist philosophy is interesting to you, I would recommend reading The Dharma by Kalu Rinpoche as a great resource to go deeper. 

Many believe and have experienced a projection as we die such as a white light or seeing your whole life replay in front of you – the Buddhist teachings align with that notion. It’s taught that as you’re falling into death, you might see a divine white light around you; that light is your true nature. A person’s “true nature” is a divine, omniscient, fully present, and love-filled light, and it is believed that if we can recognize it at our time of death then we have the chance to reach enlightenment at that moment. One who is enlightened understands the true nature of the universe, and with this has the choice to exit the cycle of re-birth.

Most of us walking around, going about our day-to-day lives are not fully enlightened Buddhas. Most of us are stuck in the cycle of Samsara (birth, sickness, old age, death, and rebirth) and have missed the chance of enlightenment at the moment of our deaths countless times. For the majority of us that do not recognize our true nature at the time of death, the conscious mind shuts off. This was described to me, by my teacher, as being similar to falling asleep. After a period of time, you will then begin to arise into the Bardo space – the liminal space between death and rebirth. 

Once you arise into the Bardo Space, you will first walk through benevolent deities who reflect all your positive karma – the positive choices or tendencies of your own mind. At the base of this transition is our mind, it is the only thing we take with us from life to life. Our mind, our essence, is made of our karmic tendencies – both good and bad. So, the next space we travel into reflects the opposite – our negative karma. The karma of anger, deceit, whatever it may be.

The practice of Buddhism in life is to prepare your mind for this very experience. The idea is when you find yourself traveling through the Bardo Space, you are doing so with a balanced and meditative mind. If your mind is balanced when you find yourself presented with beautiful, blissful, and welcoming imagery you don’t cling to it. On the opposite end of the spectrum, a balanced mind will prevent you from rejecting or turning away when you pass through the negative and wrathful displays of your own mind. A meditative and balanced mind will allow you to pass through to the third stage, where we “choose” our rebirth.

There is not much of a conscious choice in this stage unless you are an enlightened being, or very close to being one. If you don’t have the meditative practice or that absorption of mind, you are compelled to a warm dark space which becomes the womb space for your next life. You will get to see reflections of the life you are leaving behind and simultaneously see images and hear the sounds of the life you are stepping into.

It is said that the soul lingers around the mother and father in union and will choose to incarnate based on the “karmic coordinates” of their minds. So, if you have benevolent, kind, patient, and loving karmic tendencies in your mind, you will be more likely to choose similar tendencies in your parentage - It is important to clarify that the word “choice” in this context, refers to the compelling of our cosmic tendencies, not a choice of free will. Of course, we would all choose to have loving and supportive parents – no one chooses to be neglected, abused, or worse. We are pulled toward the coordinates that match the code of our karmic tendencies.

The reason that Buddhists, in life, find a meditation practice is to be able to become conscious of our tendencies and then be able to change them. If we act from the position of karmic tendencies, we will continue to suffer, but to act with the pure intention to benefit others requires a meditative and neutral mind. Which takes work. Lifetimes of work.

After Joe died, a lot of people asked me what his beliefs were about death and what happens after. I remember explaining it a few times in the immediate aftermath and finding comfort in the clarity and stability of our shared beliefs. Sometimes, we may have seemingly conflicting views within ourselves, and it's okay to hold space for more than one belief to be true. If you believe a loved one is with you and watching over you, but you also believe that they will be reborn into a new life, those two things may seem contradictory. In my opinion, what happens after we die is such a huge unknown, why shouldn’t we hold space for somehow in some way, both things to be true?

The time between life and rebirth is said to be around 40 days. So, in the days following a loved one’s death, it is important to say prayers and chant mantras to help guide them through the dark and intimidating truths of the Bardo Space. Our prayers and mantras help that being find balance through it so they can be closer to the choice of a favorable rebirth. It is believed if you have taken birth in a peaceful location where you are well cared for, you will grow up with leisure time in your day to commit to a spiritual practice that will, in turn, allow you to help more people and be of more service.

It is the goal of every Buddhist to practice and prepare for finding an even more favorable rebirth in the next life, exponentially, until we reach enlightenment. Now, I don’t use the term “enlightenment” lightly – even the most devoted Buddhist practitioners hope to become enlightened in ~16 lifetimes. 16 lifetimes is one of the more rapid ascension timelines – it could be centuries or ions.

All of this is to say that this life we have been granted is precious and should be used for meditative practice because you never know where you could end up in the next life. This conviction allows us to feel true compassion for all beings, because the loved ones we say goodbye to in this life, and the ones we’ve said goodbye to in countless lifetimes prior, may be closer than we think. 

One of the things I love most about my relationship with my oldest son right now is how a seemly “simple” question can spark such a remarkably deep and honest conversation. The morning of Halloween my son and I were talking in the car and the topic of fear came up. He asked, “Mommy, what if I see a ghost? I’d be so scared if I saw a ghost.” I reassured him that, “ghosts usually just want your attention – they want to feel like they are here with us. They just want people to notice them.” Then a simple question with a simple answer, yet again, proved to hold a deeper truth – I went on to say, “The way to face your fear whether it be a ghost or a dog (something my son is currently afraid of), is to face it head on and say to the thing you fear, I can see you and you don’t scare me.” He thought that was funny.

After our conversation, I began to think about that question for myself - I needed to identify my fear and face it. My answer was the unknown. What is going to happen? Will we be ok? How will we be ok?

In the past few weeks, I have been trying to hone in on the next best steps for our family. What roots do we want to lay down? How do we want to set up our lives now that Joe is no longer with us? There has been a LOT of fear around these questions. A lot of self-doubts and inner turmoil where I question, “how am I supposed to do this without you?” Countless nights were spent weeping, missing my husband, and begging for his guidance from the other side.

I kept begging Joe to send me a sign that was so remarkable and undeniable that I couldn’t possibly doubt he was there. I needed concrete evidence to calm the fear raging in my heart. But I can’t know the unknowable – I must move forward with the belief and faith that he is here with us.

A life coach of mine once said, “when we turn off the lights, we don’t fear the dark.” It’s not actually the darkness we are afraid of; we fear what we can’t see lurking within it. We fear the unknown. I have been sitting and musing with that idea for quite a while – how can we face the unknown not only unafraid but with joy and hopefulness? Can we play in the unknown and take away its power by admitting it’s there?

We have been planning a memorial golf tournament in Joe’s honor and one of our friends is helping design a logo for us. I just received it yesterday. It is Joe's silhouette in red with the words “Joe Knows.” below. It's reminiscent of the “Bo Knows” advertising campaign for Nike – which is the perfect representation of Joe’s energy. He was the one that people turned to in a time of crisis. Just like the picture in the logo, he was warm and approachable. He was a friend to all. This is why when I saw the logo it clicked.

The moment I opened the image I burst into tears. The night before I had a dream of Joe wearing red, comforting me, and telling me that I don’t have to worry, it will all be ok. When I saw the logo, I immediately knew that I don’t have to fear the unknown, because Joe knows.

My husband loved to journal. He had journals upon journals, filled to the brim with his thoughts, ideas, hopes, and dreams; for this, I will be forever grateful. When I was packing up our home before leaving LA, a letter dropped out of one of those many journals, almost as if it wanted to be found. The letter was addressed to our son and was written in the wake of the plane crash that claimed the lives of Kobe Bryant, his daughter Gianna, and 7 others – a tragedy that tugged on the heartstrings of people around the globe and hit especially close to home for my husband, an LA native who considered Kobe a hero.

The shock of such a sudden and unexpected death inspired my husband to write a note to his son(s), detailing all the things he wanted him to know. (This was written before my second son was born). Because of this letter, I never have to question what Joe would want to tell our boys and the lessons he wanted them to know. I carry these words with me and instill them in my sons every day. 

Dear Son,

Today a childhood hero of mine passed away with his daughter in a helicopter crash and left behind 3 daughters and his wife. What saddens me most is that his children will not have their father in their life.

It’s because of this is why I am writing you this letter, just in case of my untimely death. Son, DONT BE SAD!!! Not for one moment. You are more than anything I could have hoped or dreamed of from a son. If I was to have one day with you it would fill my heart for many lifetimes.

Some things I want to instill in you with this letter is this…

Smile always

Never lose your cool

Love everyone

Never give up

Work Hard at whatever you do

Respect your mother

Meditate and pray

Help others always

But most importantly be you. Never change your zest for life. You are an extraordinary light!!! You will be a leader and a man that can be trusted. You are a bright star to a dark night so always be kind.

I named you after my best friend. He had flaws and made mistakes in his life but he was the realest, strongest man I ever met. He saved my life on several occasions and was the realest friend I ever had in my life.

I love you so much son. Always know that and even if you don’t see me I will be by your side through every moment.

Chin up, laugh, smile, cry, do it all but never be sad. When you want to be close to me sit under the stars and breathe deeply. One of my favorite memories was holding you in my arms to show you the stars and listen to your breath and say WOW!!!

Never lose that wonder of the world!

Love always, Your Dad.

My son began asking questions about death before my husband died. I remember walking past a graveyard and watching him fill with curiosity before my eyes. He wanted to know all about graveyards and the people buried in them. On another occasion, while visiting my mom, we found a dead butterfly in her yard. My son was overwhelmed with sadness over the death of this butterfly. So, we taught him about our beliefs. We told him we believed in reincarnation – that tiny lifeless butterfly would go on to live a brand-new life. We placed the butterfly’s body somewhere sacred and beautiful and prayed it got to return as a human so he could help others one day. This foundation in my son's understanding of death and dying, helped when I had to tell him the news about his father.

Just a few weeks ago I got a call from a friend – her ex-partner, and the father of her child had just passed. After sharing the news, the conversation shifted to her daughter and she asked, “how do I tell my 5-year-old her dad died?” It wasn’t an easy question, and it didn’t have an easy answer, but it's an unknown many find themselves facing. While everyone will have a different experience, and you should always do what’s right for your unique situation, this post details the things I found most important when telling my 5-year-old his father had passed, and the discussions about his death to follow.

My response began with a question, “do you have a clear picture of what happens after we die?” Whether it is a faith-based picture, a spiritual one, or something completely different, don’t say anything to your child until you have a clear picture that is understandable, repeatable, and truthful. At 5, that question will inevitably be asked time and time again. Developing a concise and consistent message offers them a sense of comfort when their lives are rapidly changing around them.

My second piece of advice was to think about the time of day and location she chose to tell her daughter and to choose it wisely. She should be able to process the news in the space where she feels the safest and comforted. While not everyone will experience this, it’s likely the space will always represent the moment she found out their lives had changed forever. Provide a space for her to feel what she needs to, how she needs to, surrounded by energy that grounds her in love and reminds her that, eventually, things will be ok again.

Once you tell a young child their parent has passed, you can’t have any expectation of what their reaction will be. Most likely, they will be sad – but it's also very likely that they will be sad for a very short period, then want to move on. At 5, they may appear to understand the situation perfectly, then immediately ask to go play. You have to be ready to say, “ok, let's go play.”

When I sat my son down and told him, “This is what’s happened. I want you to know this is what we believe” I also told him, “If you feel sad and you feel like you want to cry, you cry. If you feel like you want to go and build Legos, we will go build Legos.” When he told me he wanted to build Legos, I had to make sure it was not a somber event – it was just a normal afternoon of building Legos with his mom. It was important to me that I never let my experience try to guide him. His experience was that he was the leader, and I was always there to support him.

In the beginning, it was really important for me to show my sons that it’s ok to feel big feelings. At the same time, it was equally important I did not let them see me breaking down all the time. I needed to model what healthy processing of emotions looked like, but it was imperative I ensure that after losing their father, they didn’t lose their mother to grief as well. For me, that processing involved doing activities together, talking about their dad, and sharing his memory.

When something pops up that reminds me of their dad, I don’t hesitate to share it with my sons. They have learned to seek comfort in the rainbows he sends us. I talk to their dad frequently, sometimes even out loud, and I involve him in all our favorite activities. While I am adapting to my new role as both mom and dad on earth, my son's father still plays an active role in their life. My constant and consistent message to my boys is that “you have a father. Even if you can’t see him, he loves you and will always be there for you.”

I wanted to share my musings about what my very distant and hypothetical dating life might possibly look like. I’m thinking about 100 years or so from now, give or take. All jokes aside, I’m definitely not ready to date. I am nowhere near being ready to date again. The potentiality of putting myself out there and getting to know someone romantically seems frankly, impossible. But, if there’s anything that losing the love of your life will teach you, it’s that the impossible not only can happen, it does happen. It’s with that sentiment I imagine that the impossible day may come when I find myself on a date.

I have spent the better part of the last decade in a relationship – and not just any relationship, the relationship. The one I thought would be my last, the one that would last forever. To then be thrown into a space where that is not necessarily the case any longer is… weird. It's striking, it's confusing, and it required me to adjust my mindset but at the same time, it can be somewhat amusing.

The idea of dating again, of beginning a relationship with someone new, has shown up like an unwelcomed houseguest who refuses to leave. It's irksome, bizarre, and tends to pop up out of nowhere to scare me when I’m least expecting it.

I’m aware that dating is not currently in the cards for me, but at some point, it could be. Beginning a new relationship, or even the desire to do so is a strange concept to wrap my mind around. While the prospect of dating again someday is uncomfortable and scary, so is the prospect of becoming a lonely old widow - of never again feeling wanted or attractive.

What I have satisfied myself with for now is the understanding that dating will one day be a possibility for me, I’m currently still in love with my husband. I still want him. While I know I have a lot to offer and share with someone, I’m still dating my husband in my heart and mind. When I wake up and choose my outfit for the day, I still consider, “would Joey like this?” Would he look at me and think, “oh yeah, that’s my wife.”

I’m sure the idea of me worrying about whether my dead husband would find me attractive sounds a bit kitschy, but what I’m truly missing is his reassurance. I’m missing the person who made me feel good. The person who told me how beautiful I was every day. Now I have to be that person for myself- -and I do it by imagining what Joe would think. Knowing my husband would be proud to show off his wife makes it easier to get dressed in the morning.

If romance is completely removed as a factor from someone’s life, it can lead them to wonder what the point is. What’s the point of dressing up, taking care of myself, getting a pedicure, etc., if I know no one will appreciate it? Even if it's not in my future to find someone, I would just continue to date my husband. So, while dating is currently not something I’m interested in, I still find the comfort of partnership in Joe's memory.

At this stage in my life, I’m ok with being a widow and a mom of 2 young boys. I’m learning what that role looks like and how it will change the course of our story. Although I lost my husband and my boys lost their father, I don’t consider myself a single mom. To me, I’m not single. I’m still dating my husband. His love and wisdom still guide our family daily. He is still an active part of our lives.

I am still in love with my husband and if I were to, hypothetically, date someone in the future they would have to love Joey too. After finding and losing the love of all loves, the “big” love as Carrie Bradshaw would say, one thing is clear - I’d much rather be in a committed relationship with my husband’s memory than with someone who can’t love my husband as well.

You might think that someone who just started playing golf probably doesn’t have many tips on how to get better, and you’d probably be right – but there is something to be said about a “beginner’s mind.” There’s a Buddhist saying that states, “If you meet the Buddha on the road, and he introduces himself as such, run away.” It means that you need to be very wary of someone who claims to know everything. A beginner’s approach to life can be beneficial to anyone at any level.

A beginner’s mind is one of the most powerful tools for transformation available to humans. It is one of the reasons that children learn and problem-solve so quickly – their minds aren’t trapped in the box of how things “should be done.” They approach life with a mindset of wonder. This is one of the things that makes golf so addicting. I believe golf is a game of lifelong beginners and a golfer’s only goal is to continually try to approve. So, take it with a grain of salt, but here are my top tips for getting better at golf, from someone who just started learning how to golf:

Tip #1: Pick a coach and/or coaches you trust and listen to only them.

Find coaches who speak your language, make you feel comfortable, and inspire you to believe you can get better. Find your coach(es) in whatever way you feel comfortable – locally at a course near you, on YouTube, golf.com, or wherever. Once you pick your people, only follow their directions.

As an African American woman who is new to golf, when I pull up to the range there is no shortage of cis-gendered, middle-aged, white men who want to offer me tips. Which, on one hand, is great... in theory. As a beginner, anything that can make you better is great. On the other hand, you might end up changing something that you did well, based on the opinion of someone who doesn’t know you. They don’t know your body, they don’t know your swing, they don’t know your mind, and they don’t know how you are going to internalize a movement. 

Tip # 2: Film yourself.

Film yourself from the start. Film every single practice session. Sure, you are going to feel like a total weirdo walking up with your tripod and a camera but, for me, to improve it’s imperative that I’m able to see what I’m doing wrong. That’s how I make the connection, “Oh, I’m doing something weird with my wrist” or “Oh, my hips are not moving quite the way I want them to.” It's frustrating to be on the range and not hitting well, and not knowing how to correct the problem. A lot of people then begin to adjust parts of their swing unnecessarily, because they don’t know why or where they’re going wrong. When you can’t pinpoint the error in your swing, it might sound like a good idea to listen to the advice of every golfer you know and their mothers (though in this particular case, probably their fathers), because you need to know what to fix. Eventually, if you watch your ball flight enough, you will be able to tell exactly what you’re doing wrong.

Tip # 3: Do indoor and/or no ball practice before bed.

Literally right before bed. Right before you get under the covers, try to integrate this into your routine. Practicing before bed helps absorb the movement into your subconscious so that the next time you are addressing a ball, you’re not thinking about your swing as much. It's already in your subconscious mind, it's in your physicality, it's in your body.

Tip # 4: Most training aids that you “need” to purchase are unnecessary.

I’ve wasted so much money on things that I don’t need. Luckily, I did all the buying and testing, so you don’t have to. Although I found most to be a waste, I did find two of them to be very helpful.

(2) Pure Strike Golf Training Disks. You don’t even need to spend money on these specific disks – anything you have laying around that’s the same size will do the trick. Even a Ritz cracker or a leaf will work if you don’t mind putting it on the ground wherever you practice. The disks help train the impact zone, or strike zone, of your iron. I have found this training aid to be the most successful tool for training my swing.

(1) Standard alignment stick. A good shot can be seen as a bad shot if you have the wrong alignment, and vice versa, a bad shot can be seen as a good shot with the wrong alignment. Alignment sticks are very versatile and can be used for so many different things.

Tip # 5: Dress the Part.

This one I knew from the jump. You must put on the outfit before you ever swing a club. This might seem vain. It might seem like “all the gear and no idea”, but it’s a concept I’ve noticed growing up dance as well. When I was younger, if I looked good on stage, I performed better. That being said, it is more than just “look good feel good”. Clothing can be used as a tool to improve your confidence as well as your performance. For example, when I began golfing, I found my swing to be too loose - I was too flexible in my back. I find having a polo shirt on, or something that feels “buttoned up”, helps my swing look and feel more controlled.

Tip # 6: Practice every day.

You are not going to get better at golf only practicing once a week or whenever you have downtime to fill. It must be a daily commitment.

It has only been 4 months since I found my husband's clubs and became obsessed with the game of golf. Not to toot my own horn, but in that short span of time, I have progressed and gained a level of confidence that I am incredibly impressed with. I feel a deep sense of pride and accomplishment when I see how far my swing has come and I’m inspired to continue trying to get better.

June 2022

August 2022

October 2022

When Joe and I were planning our honeymoon, we almost went to Kauai. Instead, we chose to enjoy our first 10 days as husband and wife in a suite overlooking Hana Bay on the lush east coast of Maui. Our honeymoon was perfect, it exceeded our wildest dreams, but the allure of the Garden Isle still lingered in our minds. We daydreamed of the day when we could go to Kauai as a family. So, it was in Joe’s memory that I planned a short trip to Kauai with my sons. This vacation was a way for us to include Joe in a new memory.

In my experience, one of the biggest sources of pain in a family that has experienced loss comes from having wonderful memories from the past turn into a source of pain. Sometimes these memories trigger emotions that are just too painful to handle, so we try not to think of them. To protect ourselves.

We have been watching a lot of Encanto recently and Bruno’s story encapsulates that frame of mind. It’s the mentality of, “we don’t talk about ____”. As its described in the movie, when memories of our loved ones are lost to the past, that’s how we lose the magic. The blessing. Everything that was wonderful about that person’s spirit. Their vibration. This is why it has been important to me that I help my sons develop a spiritual relationship with their father- primarily through golf.

From the moment we arrived in Poipu, Kauai, I felt like I could see Joe there. I just knew it was the kind of place that he would love. The little farmstand/coffeeshop that’s surrounded by an army of wild chicken and roosters, the golf course with a beautiful mountain backdrop, everything made me think about him. As I enjoyed my vacation with my family, I realized a part of me is glad Joe and I didn’t spend our honeymoon there. If we did, Kauai would be a specific memory of Joe during a wonderful period in our lives and his absence would hurt.

Gwyneth Paltrow once said it was important to her father to take her to France when she was younger because “he wanted her memory of Paris to be with a man who would always love her”. That quote stuck with me. What struck me was the realization that, so many of the places that we visit have “flesh memories”. The places that we visit with a loved one hold the vibration of that person. It’s a living memory.

I’m happy to have the opportunity to move forward and make memories that still include Joe.

The highlight of the trip was taking my oldest son to the golf course. I’ve wanted to pass down my husband’s love of golf to my sons ever since I found solace in his golf clubs in a moment of despair, shortly after his death. For my son, his first time playing on an actual golf course happened on Kauai. It was wonderful. We wore matching shirts because that’s probably what Joe would’ve wanted to do - he was kind of cheesy like that. Now, whenever my son remembers his first time on a course, he will remember how funny his father was.

When we got to the golf course, I was nervous to get out there and play. I had never done it before, and I wanted to get all the etiquette right. I was anxious I’d make a rookie mistake and embarrass myself. I felt like eyes would be on me, as it’s less common to see a young boy on the course with his mom, as opposed to his dad. I remember looking out at the beautiful view from the 5th hole, watching my son jumping up and down in excitement, having the time of his life, and being overcome by the thought that, “this should be you”, “this should be Joe”.

As I stepped up to the tee, Joe answered. All of my fears melted away and it was so natural. That’s how I knew we were in the right place at the right time, and he was there cheering us along. Playing golf with my son in matching outfits on our vacation was our way of saying, “we are not forgetting you. You will not stay in the past. You will be a part of our future memories.”

 About two weeks after my husband died, one of our more gregarious friends showed up at my door with a giant white unicorn. I kid you not. He literally knocked on my door out of the blue with a giant white unicorn in hand. He had a look on his face of utter helplessness. Of bewilderment. I could tell he just didn’t know what to do or what to say. All he knew was that he wanted to be there for us, and he wanted us to feel supported– and what popped into his head as the best way to show that was bringing us a giant white unicorn.

When people are on the outskirts of grief, they sometimes show their support in strange and funny ways. While it was totally unnecessary, and probably the last thing I needed to deal with considering I was moving across the ocean in a month, seeing that giant white unicorn made my sons smile, and that was enough. To have that moment of seeing my friend lug a giant, 4-foot, ridable unicorn up my front steps was enough. His lack of knowing what to do brought us joy, laughter, and a moment of peace.

It’s not up to me to determine how others should act around me as a result of my loss because I can’t know what emotions they are battling behind closed doors. For example: I had a friend who I expected would be closer to us. I assumed he would be more active in our lives in the time immediately following my husband’s death, but he wasn’t. I later found out his father had passed away when he was young and being around us was just too triggering for him. I tell this story to show that while grief is universal, it is also so personal- we can’t predict or hold any expectations of how others will handle it.  There are so many similarities to all grief stories yet so many nuances and individual expressions of it that we can’t fathom to manipulate or anticipate how it will affect those around us.

When dealing with the sudden loss of my husband, figuring out the logistics of a move to Maui, and facing the unknown head on – the absolute last thing I had the energy to do was hold space for someone else. I think I speak for most when I say, the most impactful support is that which is given without expectations. In the early stages of grief, the last thing we need is to expend our, already limited supply of, emotional energy by holding space for someone else’s wellbeing. It’s for this reason, I hate the question, “how are you?”

Although I recognize this question stems from good intentions and is asked in an effort to offer support, it has become a huge pet peeve of mine. When I get asked this question, I sometimes chuckle to myself over the thought of truly unloading the full weight of my grief on whichever well-intentioned person decided to reach out at 8:00am that particular morning, before heading out to start their day. But of course, I don’t do that. Instead, I expend energy crafting a more palatable response. While I must reiterate that these things are usually done unconsciously and are no one’s fault, there are a few “no-no’s” I have found while navigating through interpersonal relationships after grief. This is one.

If you are not a person I have entrusted with my vulnerability or if you are not someone to whom I feel close enough to show the full spectrum of my grief, asking me “how I’m doing” leaves me with two choices. I can either say how I am truly doing and risk making you uncomfortable or I say, “I’m fine” (or some equivalent) and risk making you think that I am totally ok, and the death of my husband was like water off a ducks back. So, if you are going to ask a grieving person how they are doing, make sure you are prepared to hold that answer – most people are not.

I find myself trying to meet somewhere in the middle. I’ll say “you know, it’s hard, but (insert list of reasons why they don’t need to worry about me).” If you are reaching out to support me, I shouldn’t be the one needing to hold space for you. Instead, if you want to check in on a loved one and let them know you’re there for them, do so, but follow up with a simple, “you don’t have to answer, just thinking of you and sending you love.” That’s it. Nothing else is expected.

Another no-no is trying to compare the actions of someone who is grieving to how you would feel or behave in the same situation. I have had so many people say, “I don’t know how you’re doing it”, “I don’t know how you’re still posting on Instagram”, or “if I were you I would ____”. This rubs me the wrong way; because you’re not. You’re not in my place. You have no idea how grief like this will strike you until it is upon you. It's ok to admit you don’t understand the full scope of what someone else is experiencing, because the truth is we never will. All grief is different, and the best thing we can do is respect each person’s sovereignty and their own personal journey.   

Sometimes the most comforting moments can come from a simple conversation between friends. A conversation without the looming cloud of grief blocking out all the light. It can be a relief to have a normal chat with someone that doesn’t revolve around the person we just lost.

I found, and still do find, comfort in hearing about the lives of the people I care about. About their success, or the things in their lives that are hopeful and positive. A lot of people worry it's inappropriate to share all the good things happening in their lives with a person who is grieving – but the truth is hearing that other people are living their lives and being fulfilled is, for me at least, very comforting. It allows me to share vicariously in those moments of joy. When you have experienced so much death and so much loss, it's inspiring to hear the stories of people who live.

On the 5th day of eliminating sugar and wheat from my diet and adopting the Medical Mediums celery juice drink first thing in the morning, I "forgot" to make my coffee. In the time leading up to this cleanse, coffee had been so ingrained into my morning routine that I no longer actively thought about making a cup. Much like opening the blinds or turning on the lights, I instinctively made coffee. Upon realizing my oversight this morning, I immediately had to make myself a cup. I went into autopilot, muscle memory kicked in, and I brewed coffee without consciously thinking about it. An addiction is something that takes away your ability to choose. 

Addiction is like a thunderstorm. Thunderstorms are caused by an imbalance of hot and cold air pressure. Once those conditions stabilize, the storm dissipates. Similarly, addiction is a temporary state and can be ended by stabilizing the conditions, or our energy, within. Unlike storms, our addiction does not have to be recurring. We have the power to choose what influences our energetic frequencies. To truly break an addiction, we must change the conditions that perpetuate the cycle. Otherwise, we will have to brace for the storm year after year as we continue to return to the addiction again and again.

When we remove a habit from our lives, the empty space that habit once occupied turns into a vacuum sucking up anything and everything to fill itself - which is why people will often drop one destructive habit just to pick up another. In many cases, they return to the same habit. If you don't have the energetic tools to maintain a state of equilibrium, it is easy to fall back into a pattern of self-destruction. When we enter a calm and balanced state it can start to feel like something is missing. We subconsciously begin to search for that missing piece, not realizing what we lost was the habit of self-deprecation, of self-doubt, sugar, or coffee. Resigning our sovereignty, we either pick up the same addiction or replace it.

My husband Joe is a great example. My husband was an alcoholic and this year would have marked 18 sober with the help of Alcoholics Anonymous. While I make this statement with pride, many would argue AAs emphasis on identifying yourself as an "alcoholic" is counterproductive and keeps you in an alcoholic state. For Joe, the statement “I’m an alcoholic” was a daily reminder of his addiction and the control it had over him. Admitting that he was powerless over his addiction was his first step in being able to surrender to a higher power, and filling the empty space left by alcohol with a higher power allowed him to maintain 18 years of sobriety.

This story shows that yes, it's totally possible to put down an addiction, but we must surrender to the knowledge that we are no longer in control and create space in our lives for new habits. The frequency of surrender, of acceptance, and relinquishing of control gifts us with the energy that will allow us to put down the addiction for good.

A sufficiently high energetic frequency provides us the space to fill that addiction. We fill the space with yoga, golf, or like my husband, with faith in a higher power, so that we don’t have to fear succumbing to the same habits every time we face our addiction. By filling that space, we lose that desire. We just drop it. We “forget” to make the coffee in the morning. This energy is the difference between truly putting down addiction and white knuckling through abstention as a mechanism of control.

So, for me, when I woke up this morning, had my celery juice, and suddenly realized I forgot to make my coffee, in that split second, I had a choice. True, I ended up making and enjoying my iced americano as I always do. But hey, gotta keep life interesting, right? 

---

*This post is for entertainment only and is not health advice. if you believe you suffer from addiction or mental illness please seek help from a licensed health professional