When Grief Returns Softly
Grief is funny.
Just when you think it’s behind you, tucked neatly into the past, it finds a way to resurface. Subtle at first, then undeniable. It peeks its head around the corner, whispering, You’re not quite finished yet.
I experienced this during my recent trip to Sedona. Sedona has always held a special place in my heart.
My first visit was in 2015 with my (now ex) husband. We shared a spiritual retreat, long hikes, and great food. It was the kind of trip where everything felt aligned. It was the beginning of my spiritual journey, a time of awakening and connection.
A few years later, I returned with my mother. We also participated in a spiritual retreat together. Our relationship had always been strained, but that trip gave us something we hadn’t had before: shared space, healing, silence, and moments of soft reconnection. It was what we needed, even if unspoken.
In 2021, almost a year into the divorce process, I went back alone. A solo hiking trip. A personal pilgrimage. That visit was complete with running long miles, deep reflection, and another spiritual retreat. I came there broken and searching, trying to piece myself back together.
Now it’s 2025, and I’ve returned, this time with my boys. This trip felt different. There wasn’t the same seeking. The pain had transmuted. I didn’t feel broken. I wasn’t chasing meaning. I wasn’t unraveling. I was here. Present. Grounded. Enjoying them. Laughing. Moving through the days with a lightness I hadn’t known before. It felt like an integration, as if something had come full circle.
And then, driving through Boynton Canyon, it hit me.
The song New Year’s Day, by Taylor Swift, was playing, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of grief so sharp and unexpected that I had to turn away so my boys wouldn’t see the tears quietly falling. The night before, I had dreamt about my ex-husband. I was angry in the dream, finally using my voice. Maybe that dream cracked something open, and grief began to seep out like a wound I hadn’t realized was still open.
Maybe Sedona was just the conduit.
Maybe the land remembers what I try to forget.
Grief doesn’t care about your timelines. It doesn’t arrive politely, at a convenient time. It comes when you’re ready, even if you don’t realize you are.
And maybe that’s what this trip was really about. Not healing. Not searching. Just being and letting what still needs to rise finally have room to surface.