When life cracks wide open, everything that’s misaligned gets loud.

In May of 2022, my dad died.
A month later, my husband was diagnosed with brain cancer. A month after that, my grandmother passed.

It felt like my own personal Mercury retrograde — nothing was untouched.
When one area of your life shakes, it ripples outward. Cracks widen. The things you’ve been white-knuckling? They start to splinter.

That stretch of time kicked up a lot. And one of the quiet truths it revealed — like sand settling in water — was my relationship to spirituality.

I noticed something:
Some spiritual tools held.
Others didn’t.

Mindfulness. Meditation. Holding a crystal in my palm and focusing on my breath — those became survival tools. Not because they gave me answers, but because they gave me a place to rest. They helped me hold the moment without collapsing into it.

But others — like “everything happens for a reason,” or “your outer world is a reflection of your inner world” — felt like putting a bandage on a broken bone. They didn’t match the scale or depth of the experience. They asked me to spiritualize something I was just trying to survive.

And in a strange way, some of those teachings made it harder — like if I couldn’t find a deeper meaning fast enough, I was somehow failing at life.  Some of those ideas had resonated with me before. But in that season, they didn’t fit. At least not in the way they were being sold to me.

There was no bypassing with “positive thinking.”
There was no pulling a card for clarity.
There was no fixing.

Only navigating. Moment by moment.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking questions.

Not because I was afraid of the answers (though sometimes I was), but because the questions themselves didn’t feel relevant anymore. I wasn’t looking for guidance on what to do next. I didn’t want a cosmic strategy session.

What I needed was to feel held.
To remember I wasn’t alone.
To return to the message I kept hearing in the quiet:
“You’re going to be okay.”

‍Even if the worst happened — and sometimes it did — I would still be held. And in that, I found a quiet power.

That power wasn’t about making choices.
It wasn’t about control.
It wasn’t about knowing what was going to happen.

No amount of tarot cards or spirit team contact was going to give me the answer I wanted (which was: “this is all going to just go away”).

But those tools — when reshaped through a more human-centered lens — helped me anchor into something more powerful than any direct answer: me.

‍When things fall apart, it’s less about having all the tools and more about knowing which ones can bear the weight of something heavy.

It’s remembering who you are when everything else feels unfamiliar.
It’s choosing to stay in relationship with yourself, your values, and what actually matters — even in the gray zone.

For a lot of people, spirituality in uncertain times looks like: “What should I do?” or “How can I fix this?”

‍But sometimes, the most stabilizing thing you can do is stop reaching for answers and certainty and start rooting into who you know yourself to be.

If you’re in it right now — not looking for a five-step plan, just trying to make it through the day — here’s what I want you to know:

Less is more.

You will fall back on what you know.
And if you’ve done the slow, quiet work of getting to know yourself — how you move, what you value, what supports you — you’ll have something real to land on.

Not to escape what’s happening, but to meet it with your full presence.

That’s true spirituality.
That’s what holds.

And if you haven’t done that work yet — that’s okay. It’s never too late to start building a relationship with yourself that can hold you when you need it most.

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If this landed and you're in a moment of uncertainty, grief, or recalibration — I offer 1:1 coaching for people navigating exactly this kind of threshold. You don’t have to figure it out alone.

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