Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Month: September 2026

How to Get Your Broom Back by Gabrielle St. George

September 27, 2026 / / 0 Comments

The book, “How to Get Your Broom Back”, is not my typical grief reading subject, but it came to me across Instagram as a book every woman should read when she turns 50. Although I am older than the suggested demographic, I too liked the idea of ‘getting my broom back’. It was a great read, and I will argue with Gabrielle St. George, it is not only for women the age of 50 but any person of any age wanting to live life more fully. The eluded goal of any griever!

Gabrielle chooses humor to speak to a subject of how we tend to lose our personal mojo with age, responsibilities and generally trying to fit in better. She includes, in each chapter, ideas to consider, real people examples and homework of introspection to bring us back to our former glory. The ideal that we are ‘witches’ is more about the power to be ourselves than the actual supernatural kind making reading even more entertaining.  ‘Getting your broom back’ becomes a passionate goal that arises as you read.

Some suggestions are easy like creating a space at home to relish in. One chapter wasn’t for me-I’ve long passed menopause, although she describes this stage in such light that I wish I had heard it ten years ago. Other chapters took a bit more digging; chapter three for instance was about rekindling your flame. “Your inner inferno called.  It wants back in.” This chapter analyzed where we might have lost our fire or how and Gabrielle offers a 5-step check-in to ensure we can get it back.

My favorite chapter might be chapter six, ‘Everyday Magic’. “Your Tuesday called.  It wants to be enchanted.” Ironic that she chose the day I hate most. In grief, Tuesdays are my kryptonite. I took it as a sign. It talks about creating ‘magic’ in everyday simplicity. Finding that perfect mug (even if it is chipped) to enjoy your first morning coffee. Sprinkle it with cinnamon, not for taste but for the ‘witchy power’ it gives you-success, passion and protection. Or cloves for luck and connection.

Or maybe my favorite chapter was, “It’s time to find your coven.” Gabrielle tells us that no witch flies alone. Eventually we need someone. She writes, “A coven is simply this: women who see you, believe you, and cheer you on.” The chapter includes how to sort through current friendships, why sisterhood matters and gives inspiring examples of women who have created their own covens. This is a chapter for any age, any gender, looking for a kinship of positivity.

This was a book that each chapter I would relate to how it could support my grief, my dreams and my wishes for my daughter. She and I have always kidded about our ‘witchy side’ and this book gently reminds you of who you are meant to be and how to both find and ride your broom. A perfect book for the upcoming Halloween season.  Gabrielle’s whimsical advice on getting the most out of life, is a fun read that brings subtle revelations to “I can fly.”  Even when you fly with grief.

The Need to Pet the Coos

September 20, 2026 / / 0 Comments

At a recent gathering of fellow grieving mothers, it was brought up how often the desire to “just run away” occurs. We agreed that being alone is essential and that new places offer a certain freedom of living the day without being encircled by our truth. Distractions are easier. I think that is why travel, especially when dealing with grief, can become an addictive outlet. Just ask my daughter.

Our family travelled to Iceland and Ireland last year at this time. My daughter expressed how happy she was. This year, she went to Scotland. We didn’t understand this decision. Why a place that was like where she had just been. Why now when she has so many upcoming decisions here to focus on. Her insistence was something she didn’t even comprehend. She jested about wanting to pet a coo (a.k.a. cow) and see the Loch Ness Monster’s lake. All things abstract. She just knew she had to go.

The pictures and texts we have received from her on this solo journey prove she made the right decision. Her happiness traveling abroad to discover castles and myths and sweet foods show in her smile and in her captions. “I have never been happier” she writes.

She isn’t the only family member with an itching to travel.  This fall, quite a few of our clan have sought a vacation. Each to a different place, for a different reason and as they book their flights and plan their itinerary, I wonder if they are aware that grief could be the motivation behind their excitement to go. It has been another tough year for all of us. The third quarter of this year, the hardest yet, and perhaps this wear and tear on our emotions is the undercurrent to needing to get away.

For me, travel always seems short-lived. When you return home from a trip, so does your grief, and usually accompanied by jet lag. It seems daunting. You have this incredible week or two that life seems grand and then you come home to the same old same old. Maybe travel needs to be part of the method of how to live with grief, not a hopeful remedy. Grief does not leave, although my family proves, it can take a vacation.

My question has morphed from why travel to how to bring travel home. How does one take the happy pieces of their trip and incorporate it into their regular life. How does the healing of travel become your everyday show rather than an advertisement to what you wish for. I wonder if one took the highlights of their trip and created that at home, if eventually, ‘real life’ would be filled with all the wonders of travel captured in the form of a photo or an object or a tradition borrowed and incorporated that reflect those blissful moments.

Trips remind us that we traveled with our grief and still discovered joy. That we explored new areas with our loved one’s spirit next to us. Perhaps that is the true addiction to travel; finding ourselves experiencing new things that our soul shares with those we miss in real time.

On my daughter’s trip, she took a pinch of Zane with her. A symbolic gesture that he is with her on her voyage. She is aware that grief does not stay home when you travel but that it can be calmed by the new adventures of each day. I believe our loved ones like us to travel and show up on our journeys as spiritual escorts. My daughter is fully aware that her brother sits next to her sharing her moments and cheering her on. That alone is worth a trip to pet the coos.

Placing Stones on Purpose

September 13, 2026 / / 0 Comments

This past June, our grief group welcomed the summer break with an activity where we painted the name of our child onto small, flat stones.  We then shared with everyone, so that all of us carried home a bag of stones, one for each child. The homework assignment was to find a random place to put the stone. It was suggested as a simple exercise that would bring reflection and mindfulness to our grief.

Zane’s stone was easy. I placed it in a flowerpot at the restaurant that he worked at, that Payton was married at, that Jon and I went to celebrate him on his death day this year. I felt it fitting to have Zane’s name on a stone at the place where once his entire life encircled.

The other three required some thought.  You did not want to just chuck the stone bearing the name of one of your friend’s children, so I pondered all summer where I would place these. On a teary walk on a rainy-day morning, it hit me. I was at the reservoir. The place where Zane grew up enjoying all it offered. The place that I enjoyed for years with Tango. The place I now return to when I need connection. This was a place I was sure each boy would have enjoyed. I wanted to share with them what Zane had experienced.

I went back to the car and gathered the stones. Along the path, I recalled the first stories that their mother’s had shared with me about their child.

Karl, who loved camping and enjoyed the responsibility of ensuring that the fire ‘kept burning’, his stone was placed near the picnic bench that I shared many meals in the summer with my children. It was also the place our first grief group gathered for Candle Lighting Day.

Cole, who loved football and was the star attraction at the Stampede tailgate parties. His stone I placed at the tailgate of the boats that our family has walked by for years and taken dozens of pictures of the beauty of a simple sailboat floating in the water.

Sean, who loved urban art, an artist himself, sharing his talents throughout the city. His stone I placed on a cement structure commissioned by the city to be painted graffiti style. These works of art are scattered in the parking lot and the one I chose was the one I parked my car next to when taking Tango for his walks.

For each stone, my ceremony was simple. I gave it a light kiss, whispered, “your mom misses you” and placed it in its resting spot.  

As I walked back to my car, I leaned into my grief. These boys, including my own, were all in their twenties when they left earth. I hold the same pain that their mothers do, the heaviness of how is this possible. And then I realized something, my heartache was a tinge different as I took that walk. I was caught up in the moment of finding and placing each stone in a spot, that my grief became a sweeter melancholy.

When we are mindful about remembering and honoring our loved ones, grief works with us to see life in richer deeper colors. And although there are tears and the missing them does not relinquish, spending purposeful time thinking of them, becomes a hug from heaven.    

The Murder of Monday

September 6, 2026 / / 0 Comments

For a year now, I have had the pleasure of spending Monday afternoon with my son-in-law. As we all navigate the transition of happily married, to newly separated, he and I would gather at one of our three favorite bars to share our grief, swap stories and basically hold each other up. One can argue who this was more important for. In the early days, I think it was both of us. That has changed.

Recent events and I guess time have created a shift. The pain of connection to what reminds him of what he had and has lost, has become too much. The slim possibility of reconciliation happening only for a moment here and there has supported his decision that to remove everyone reminding him of the past is what his grief requires.  Including me.

I believe and respect that each has their own path to travel with grief; that each of us needs to do what our grief commands to survive because ignoring it brings major complications. So, I must accept that there has been thought, and this decision is necessary. For him.

For me, I feel like I am being punished for something I did not do. I have enjoyed his company, his quirkiness and his big heart for over a decade. He was Zane’s buddy that slept over; the two of them eating pizza and playing video games like twelve-year old boys. After Zane was killed, he instantly became a member of our family and from the first day was the steadfast rock in the shock and grief that consumed us. There was never a moment when I didn’t send a text or pick up the phone to say I need you, that he didn’t come running. Unknowingly, he became the buffer to the pain of not being able to hold Zane.

This last year, I felt we had our own deepened relationship, albeit complicated by the past, it was unique to the drama of our family. We share private jokes, compare stories about Zane’s adventures and because of our history, I can vent to someone who understands. Our Mondays became a sacred and anticipated hour of laughter over chardonnay and martinis.

There was a part of me that knew as life carried us forward our relationship would change, but end? That was never a consideration. After all, he was and will always be one of Zane’s best friends. Yes, we would move on, finding new opportunities and I felt these might be the stories he would share that would cause me to feel nostalgic about what might have been. Not once did I think that murdering our Monday afternoons would be an option.

The decision to ‘create distance’ to soothe his grief has increased mine. It is one more change that I did not choose. It is one more loss that I now hold. And, if I am being honest, it is one more person that I love that has estranged me to support their own emotions. This is heavy. I am not sure where in my universal soul plan, I agreed to hold grief so many times, so many ways, and with such vigor. I only know that it is loud and continuous. Like a bad movie, playing over and over.

Alas, I have no control but to wait, wishing, for an invitation to resurrect Mondays. In the meantime, I have a heart filled with memories of the antics we shared. It is what it is.

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