It caught me off guard. I didn’t realize what it was until a close friend named it: grief.

A combination of losses and anticipatory ones had rolled up to my front door in a big, messy bundle.

It hasn’t followed a straight line, and it rarely arrives in ways I expect. Some days it’s loud. Other days, it’s quiet but persistent. Most often, it’s unpredictable.

What has helped hasn’t been pushing through but staying close to what grounds me. That’s looked like slowing down, stepping back, or reaching for support without guilt or explanation.

The work I love has offered rhythm and purpose but only when I’ve prioritized caring for myself first. I’ve learned I can only show up fully for my clients when I’m resourced, not when I’m over-functioning to outrun pain. Honouring that balance has helped me stay present to both my grief and my work.

A loved one in their own grief recently said, “Please don’t judge me, but I find my work comforting.” I didn’t judge it for a moment. I understood. Routine can be healing, as long as we stay honest when something deeper is asking to be felt.

One of the most important things I’ve learned is to honour my limits, not just for my own well-being, but for the integrity of what I offer. In coaching (and same can be said in leadership), we talk about ‘self as instrument’. That instrument needs tuning. It needs rest. Sometimes, it needs quiet.

Grief isn’t always about death. It might be the loss of a relationship, a season of life, a job, or a version of ourselves. It can hide inside change, uncertainty, or transformation. Even when no one else sees it, it’s real.

If you’re in a season like this, you’re not alone. If it helps, here are a few questions I’ve been sitting with:
1) What does support actually look like for me right now, realistically and within reach?
2) What’s one small thing I can give myself permission to feel or do today?
3) Who on my “Personal Board of Directors” can help me navigate this time?

Grief is part of being human. It asks a lot of us. But it’s also a cue to slow down, to listen deeply, to care gently for ourselves.

We grieve because we have loved. And that, in itself, is something worth honouring.

Posted with love, and always fervor,

Eva