On the unexpected grief of leaving behind a life you loved.

I've been sitting with grief lately.

And what's interesting is that I couldn't quite put my finger on what I was grieving.

I love the life I'm living right now. I love the roots I'm planting, the experiences I'm having, and the woman I am today.

However, there's been this feeling moving through me that I haven't quite known what to do with.

Grief.

Not the kind we typically think about when someone we love dies.

A different kind.

The kind that can show up when we willingly leave behind something we deeply loved.

And I've been wondering...

Can we be wildly grateful for the life we're living and still grieve the one we chose to leave behind?

The Home That Held Me

For four years, I lived full-time in my van, Alani, with my chocolate Lab, Olivia Grace.

Four years of mountains, oceans, forests, unfamiliar roads, and waking up not always knowing where the hell I'd be sleeping that night.

Four years of stepping outside the expectations of what a woman in the second half of her life is supposed to be doing.

There was so much unraveling in those years.

So much liberation.

Grief, too.

There were moments of extraordinary beauty, moments of fear, moments when I questioned everything, and moments when I felt more alive than I ever imagined possible.

And through all of it, there was Alani 🚐

My home.

My sanctuary.

My little cocoon on four wheels.

I could spend an entire day out in the world, exploring unfamiliar places, meeting people, holding space for others, or simply being alone with myself.

And at the end of the day, I could close those van doors.

And I was home.

There was something about that little space.

The familiarity of where everything belonged. My morning rituals. Olivia curled up in her spot. The quiet of being tucked away from the world.

It didn't matter whether we were parked beside the ocean, beneath towering pines, or somewhere in the middle of nowhere.

That space was mine.

And I hadn't realized just how deeply that sanctuary had become part of me until I stopped living in it.

The Grief I Didn't Expect

Here's the thing.

I chose to plant roots.

I wasn't forced out of vanlife. I didn't lose Alani. And I'm not sitting here wishing I could rewind my life.

I genuinely love where I am.

And I miss my little home.

I miss the intimacy of that space.

The feeling of closing the doors and knowing that everything I needed was right there.

The rhythm of a life that had become so familiar to my body.

And for a while, I couldn't quite understand why that feeling was showing up.

Because isn't this what I wanted?

Didn't I choose this next chapter?

And if I'm happy, why am I grieving?

I'm beginning to realize that those questions don't necessarily need answers.

Maybe I can love where I am and miss where I've been.

Maybe both get to exist.

Grief Has So Many Faces

I was recently having a conversation with a colleague about grief and the many ways it moves through our lives.

And it got me thinking about how often we associate grief with one particular kind of loss.

The death of someone we love.

And yet, grief can show up in the ending of a relationship, a friendship that changes, a home we leave behind, a dream that no longer fits, or a life that once felt so familiar.

Sometimes grief looks like sadness.

Sometimes it's restlessness, distraction, numbness, or a feeling we can't quite name.

And sometimes we're moving through our days, doing all the things, laughing, loving, creating, genuinely enjoying our lives...

And there's still something asking to be felt.

We can function through an experience without necessarily having made space to process it.

That thought has been sitting with me.

Because there's a difference between recognizing what we're carrying and actually allowing ourselves to feel it.

And even with all the years I've spent exploring the body, the nervous system, and the many layers of our human experience, I'm still discovering this within myself.

Another layer.

Another invitation to get curious.

What If Grief Doesn't Need to Make Sense?

One of the things I've been asking myself lately is:

What if I stopped trying to figure out exactly what this grief is about?

What if I didn't need to give it a name, find the lesson, or move it along?

What if I simply gave it somewhere to land?

A breath.

A hand on my heart.

A little space to feel what's here.

Because grief doesn't ask for permission to show up.

And I'm realizing that acknowledging what I'm carrying and allowing myself to actually FEEL it are two very different things.

I'm not grieving the woman I was during those four years.

I love that woman. I honor everything she moved through and everything she dared to become.

I'm grieving the home that held her.

The sanctuary I created while so much of my life was unraveling and rearranging itself.

The place that held my tears, my laughter, my solitude, my freedom.

And maybe there are other layers I haven't discovered yet.

I'm okay with not knowing.

The Other Side of Reinvention

We talk so much about reinvention in midlife.

The freedom of choosing ourselves. Of shedding expectations. Of stepping outside the lives we were conditioned to live.

And I believe in every bit of that.

I've lived it.

And I'm beginning to see that there's another side to reinvention we don't talk about nearly enough.

The grief that can come with it.

Not because we made the wrong choice.

Not because we're longing to go backward.

Simply because what came before mattered.

Because we loved it.

Because it held us through a season of our lives that changed us.

And maybe we don't have to turn every ending into a celebration or every uncomfortable feeling into something to overcome.

Maybe we can honor what was, love what is, and allow the space between the two to be a little messy.

I'm still discovering what this grief is asking of me.

Some days I miss the freedom. Other days it's the quiet familiarity of my little cocoon.

And some days I can't quite name it at all.

For now, I'm letting that be enough.

I'm loving the life I'm living.

And I'm allowing myself to miss the one I left behind.

Because choosing a new chapter doesn't mean the last one stops living inside us.