How the Living Wilderness Teaches Us to Let Go

Grief has a pulse — an ancient rhythm the Earth already understands. The living wilderness doesn’t rush to fix or hide its losses; it honors them. Trees shed what no longer serves, rivers release without resistance, and the soil receives it all — transforming endings into beginnings. When we’re caught in our own ache, we can look to nature for guidance. It reminds us that letting go isn’t about forgetting; it’s about participating in life’s greater rhythm. Every falling leaf and breaking wave becomes a whispered invitation: to breathe, to soften, to trust that renewal lives quietly beneath the sorrow.

I’ve had the pleasure of grieving several times.

That may sound strange or even awful, but to me, it’s a tender reminder that I have loved deeply—so deeply that loss has become a sacred part of my living. Each goodbye, each heartbreak, is an invitation to honor a life, a love, or a chapter while I’m still breathing.

My first memory of loss was as a very young child—my great-grandparents. Weekends at their house meant cousins running wild, grown-ups cooking and telling stories, the comfort of generations gathered under one roof. It was joyful chaos, the kind that shapes your sense of belonging. Not every loss since then has been that gentle. Some have been tragic and shocking—friends lost to accidents, to violence, to the unpredictability of youth. Those early experiences cracked me open and taught me what it means to feel deeply and still keep living.

In between those large griefs, life gives us what I call the practice of grieving: the smaller losses that still ache—divorces, friendships fading, pets, jobs, identities we’ve outgrown. Each one hurts, but each one also builds emotional strength and character if we choose to meet it honestly. Grieving becomes its own kind of teacher, showing us again and again how to remember and honor what once was, without losing ourselves in the process.

And then there’s the kind of grief that isn’t about losing someone, but about sitting beside someone who has lost their light. As a mother, teacher, and coach, I’ve sat with children and teens in the heaviness of depression. There is both pleasure and displeasure in those moments. The pleasure is sacred—it’s knowing you’ve been chosen to sit in the dark with someone, to be a steady presence when everything else falls away. The displeasure is the heartbreak of holding that pain when your own soul is cracking open beside them. It is the hardest work, but it’s also holy work.

When you’re in that space—when grief feels unbearable and the air itself seems too thick to breathe—look for the light source.

Take one deep, deliberate breath. Then another. Sit. Listen. Rest.

Let stillness be your medicine.

Listen for the messages that come in the quiet.

Sometimes it’s a butterfly, a dragonfly, a bird, or a sudden breeze that feels like a whisper. I believe in those moments—they are reminders that love doesn’t leave, it just changes form.

Nature has always been my most faithful companion through grief. When we immerse ourselves in the sageness of the natural world, we begin to realign. The fast, noisy pace of modern life dulls our connection to nature—and to ourselves. Loss calls us back to both.

Even if you can’t step outdoors, you can rest your gaze on a patch of sky through a window, or find solace in the quiet company of a plant. When we allow ourselves to be restored by simple beauty—the way light dances on water, leaves float down from trees, or children’s laughter echoes through a park—we start to feel our own aliveness again.

Nature grieves too. It sheds, storms, breaks, and still it grows. It doesn’t rush its process—it honors it. Then it moves forward with quiet wisdom.

So go outside. Take a “happiness hike.” Watch a sunrise or sunset from your kayak, your porch, or your heart. Add a birdbath or a hammock to your garden. Sit. Pray. Sing. Journal. Paint. Listen.

Remember: Nature does not try to silence a damaged heart or distract it with noise. It invites you to listen to the wild pulse of life that still beats beneath the ache.

The wild is calling, my friend. I hope you’ll answer.