For nearly thirty years, I lived inside a life that made sense.
It had structure.
A rhythm.

Until it didn’t.

Within three months, my husband died.
My dog followed him.
My work came to an end.
My mother nearly did.
I left the place that held our history.

In the midst of tears, I counted my losses,
only to realize I had owned none of it in the first place.

What disappeared wasn’t just people, roles, or location.
It was the inner continuity that had quietly held my life together.

What was once familiar turned, in an instant, into uncertainty.
It was not subtle.
It was disruptive.
It changed me.

This is where my work comes from.
Not answers.
Not theory.

But the willingness to stay
when the old life no longer fits
and the next one hasn’t taken shape yet.