What is Grief, Really?

Recently, someone who’s been beside me for 15 years through every rise and fall said to me—"You’d make a really great grief counselor.”

I laughed; out loud. Not from offense, but from the disassociation to the title, because at this point in my journey, I’m not even sure I believe in grief—at least not in the way the world has framed it. Naturally, I inquired, “Walk me through it; how did you come to that conclusion?”

Let me add some context.

This person has witnessed it all—every version of me: the chaos, the color, the contraction, the becoming. They’ve met the current version of me before I had the courage to embody her fully. They've seen my soul stretch through heartbreaks, ego deaths, wild haircuts, numbing phases, career pivots, and spiritual rebirths. And through it all, they’ve seen one thing remain consistent: I alchemize. And They’ve always admired how I move through the world—honest, deep, and awake.

So, their conclusion of “grief counselor” wasn’t rooted in textbook training—it came from watching me alchemize three significant transitions in my 3D reality over the last nine months. “Anyone would understand if you weren’t okay after all that and how much you’ve sacrificed to prioritize your moms' health,” they said. “But here you are—in your greatest form.  It’s like if I didn’t know you, I’d never guess what you’re going through.”

Their reflection came after watching me navigate three significant transitions in my 3D world in just 45 days.

And it’s true. In my truest Soul, I am here—more alive than ever. I’ve found clarity and softness in my father’s transition, reverence and remembrance in JayR’s, and peace in the dissolving of my relationship.

To give you the timeline:

🌊 July 6, 2024 – JayR, soul twin, my mirror, the only one who truly knew the entire spectrum of my being, chose to leave this realm. I had been calling him—needing him—because my dad was in the hospital. When I didn’t hear back, I texted his brother. His brother called, and with a heavy heart, told me JayR had taken his own life.

💔 July 15 – My dad underwent open-heart surgery.🕊️ July 29 – He transitioned.🌒 August 12 – My romantic partnership ended.

So yes, within 45 days, my father, my best friend, and my partner were gone (at least from this dimension). And somehow, I remained open.  Not in denial.  Not bypassing. Open.

When my friend says I have some kind of “secret sauce” for managing loss, maybe what they’re sensing is that my comprehension of loss is rooted in something greater than me (or us in this 3D existence).

What even is loss?  What even is grief?

How can we lose something we never truly owned?

So yeah, maybe I do hold a different perspective on “grief.”Because I don’t see these as losses—I see them as transmutations.

Energy, after all, is never gone. It simply becomes.

The truth is, I still feel all of them.

JayR? I find him in the ocean, surrounded by dolphins, the light, and BlueJays.

Dad? I connect with him when I ride my bike, lift weights, gaze at the clouds, or when the wind blows just right.

My former partner? The love we shared didn’t evaporate—it softened into a deeper, quieter knowing.

Everything is energy. Nothing belongs to us. No person. No moment. No emotion. All is borrowed. All is gifted. All is sacred. Some energies take on human form. Some move through as animals, feelings, conversations, and colors in the sky. But none of it is ours.

So what, exactly, are we grieving?

Grief—if we can even call it that—has nothing to do with absence. It’s the longing for a physical echo of a soul we already carry within us. We grieve not because something is gone, but because we remember what it felt like to hold it in form. And isn’t that beautiful?

The moment I heard of JayR’s transition, I drove to the ocean. Straight to the water. To be with him. I spoke with the dolphins. I let the sun hold me. I called my coach and Shara. I cried and let others witness. And in doing so, I found him—not gone, just redistributed. Same with my dad. I meet him on runs, in the car, during workouts, when the wind brushes my cheek just right or when I look up in the sky.

Even my relationship, though its container dissolved, still echoes. I feel the warmth of soul memory. I hear the quiet “I love yous” telepathically.

So again I ask—what is loss?

Everything continues. Just not always in the ways we’ve known.

Still, I had a moment—recently—when my human body missed. Deeply. I felt what we label as grief. It wrapped around me for days. I reached for JayR, my dad, and Auntie Kathy (yes, she transitioned in January—my aunt, my godmother). My chest ached. My body held tension. I wanted someone—anyone—to come back in physical form to hold me.

I cried.

I longed.

I reached.

But I witnessed it. I didn’t judge it. I let it be. And then—I caught myself in the narrative of lack and shifted.

I thought to myself, “ You only miss them because you had the privilege of knowing them. You got to hear their voice, feel their embrace, laugh over nothing, and share space in this wild, beautiful human experience.”

And in that moment—they returned.

Not in body, but in sensation. In vibration. I felt them all around me. Holding me. Laughing. Nodding. Grief transformed into gratitude.

We can’t miss what we never had. The grief is not about their absence. It’s about our immense gratitude for their presence. That awareness is what invited them back in—instantly. The shift from “Why did you leave?” to “Thank you for choosing to share in this timeline with me” was what opened the energetic channel.

They never left. They simply changed form.

So again… what is grief?

Grief, to me, is the illusion of separation from what is eternal. It’s forgetting that energy is absolute. That love is a frequency, not a body. And once you understand this, loss becomes unfathomable.

JayR, Dad, Auntie Kathy, my relationship—they are not gone. They’ve simply transmuted. And that’s what I understand: alchemy. I know how to transmute. I choose the frequency I live in. I understand how to feel the sorrow, and then raise the vibration without denying any of it. I know how to let it all be sacred.

So, no—I’m not a grief counselor. But I am a soul who knows how to meet death with life. Who knows how to feel the ache and still choose the light.

And maybe that’s what my friend was trying to name.