Grief Takes Time: Learning to Breathe Again After Loss

This blog is part of my own journey of healing grief and learning to process loss in my body, mind, and spirit.

Losing a parent in such a sudden, up-and-down way is one of the soul-quakes that rearranges everything that you thought you had already healed. The body holds the chaos of those moments. The beeping machines, the uncomfortable hospital chairs, the hospital lights, the feeling of being helpless. That’s what makes this feel like PTSD—it’s not just sadness, it’s the body remembering too vividly. The remembering of everything.

When my mom passed away six months ago, I didn’t realize how deeply my body would remember. She had been sick with a virus that turned into pneumonia. One day we were hopeful, the next we were being told she needed to be life-flighted to Utah. They found that she had sepsis and ARDS that filled her lungs and she was unable to breathe on her own. She was put on a ventilator, then after a couple of days was taken off because she seemed to be doing better. She improved again, then, she didn’t.

I remember the night, as my sister and I sat with her watching the St. Patrick Swayze marathon, she started to move around uncomfortably. It was after midnight and we decided we would stay with her until she got comfortable enough to fall asleep but, then the beeping machines went off and I remember my moms face…  I remember her reaching for me as my sister ran out of the room to get the nurse. She had had a stroke. I remember all the doctors, my sister holding my hand as they ran through the choices that needed to be made. I remember feeling like the whole bottom fell out from underneath me and wanting to throw up. I remember telling myself to be strong but feeling like a little kid that just wanted my mom as she lay in the hospital bed. I remember everything....

She had emergency surgery to remove the blood clot from her brain which was successful but, she had another bleed in another portion of her brain. Another rollercoaster of hope before the fall. Every time we thought she was progressing, something else came up and with her underlying issues of Lupus and NA cirrhosis, it made treatment for one thing risk something else.

Eventually, we were given the decision to move her to in-home hospice care. That month was difficult but it was never a burden to care for her. My dad and I sat with my mom, my confidante, my best friend as she took her last breath on April 29^th. I had the honor of giving her the shamanic death rites. She was only 63 years old and I miss her every moment of every day.

My mother's plaque. Grief continues to teach me about love, remembrance, and the importance of slowing down to heal.

It was a rollercoaster of hope and heartbreak—every day a new version of fear. I can still see her reaching for me after the stroke, still feel her hand in mine, still remember her last breath. For months I have stayed in survival mode, trying to manage the logistics and the emotions, telling myself I was “doing okay.” And now, especially with the holidays coming, the waves are hitting harder. But know that it is okay to feel the emotions. One moment you may feel grounded, and the next, a smell or a song pulls you right back into the moment that you lost them. For me, it’s every little mundane task like grabbing coffee, debating what to make for dinner, going to Target, or the cute little things that my grandson does, all of the things that I find myself picking up the phone to call and talk to her about. And in an instant, it hits me that I can’t. I’m sure anyone who has lost someone dear to them has gone through this and/or still going through it. That doesn’t mean we’re going backwards; it means love still lives in us.

The Body Remembers What the Mind Tries to Forget

But grief has its own timeline, it doesn’t move on a schedule. Grief isn’t only sadness; it’s an echo of love trying to find where to go. Tears, fatigue, anxiety, or even numbness are all ways the spirit whispers, “I need time to process.” My body reminds me of this constantly. In the Andean teachings, we talk about hucha—the heavy energy that gathers when life overwhelms us. Healing means giving that energy space to move again, through breath, prayer, and stillness. It’s not about fixing what’s broken, it’s about allowing love to flow where it’s been trapped.  

Ayni: Finding Balance Between Holding and Releasing

In Andean Shamanism, we honor the principle of Ayni, the sacred reciprocity of life. It teaches that giving and receiving must stay in balance. In grief, we often keep giving—care, comfort, responsibility—without realizing how much we need to receive. 

This season, I’m practicing Ayni with myself. Taking time to rest. Saying no when I need to. Letting my community hold me the way I hold others. Letting tears and nature be my medicine. Healing isn’t linear; it spirals. One day you may laugh, and the next you may crumble. Both are part of the same circle of transformation. This week I crumbled but today, after 6 months of holding it in, I am sharing my experience and letting the tears fall.

The Light That Remains

Grief doesn’t mean we’ve lost love—it means love has changed form. I’m learning that healing doesn’t erase the pain, it makes room for peace beside it. My mom’s spirit is woven into my breath, my work, and the way I show up for others.

So, remember this: You are not behind. You are not broken. You are becoming. Take your time. Breathe deeply. Rest when you can. Let your grief have a voice—it’s how love finds its way home again.

A moment shared with my mom.

Tukuy Munayniyoc,

Mel K.