The Teacher I Didn't Expect: How Grief Guided Me After Loss
“We are far more capable of holding life's intensity than we ever imagine."
– The Wildcrafted Way
Some emotions arrive quietly, slipping through cracks in the day like gentle whispers. Others arrive with a force so strong they can knock us out of ourselves—seemingly demanding to be fixed, solved, or silenced. But what if, instead of fixing or fleeing, we stayed?
This is the story of the day I lost my beloved mentor, Renate—the very person who had always guided me through life's deepest mysteries. It was also the day grief became my unexpected teacher, gently introducing me to what I now recognize as The Wildcrafted Way—holding presence, tenderness, and deep attention toward what is, rather than what I wish it would be.
I remember exactly where I was when grief came knocking. In a bar at the Red Lion Hotel in Kelso, Washington, it was summer and we were attending our son’s regional baseball tournament. Old worn leather barrel-back chairs surrounded scratched wooden tabletops, each adorned with outdated 70s-style waxy red candleholders casting faint shadows. The familiar aroma of spilled beer and wine mingled with the hum of jovial conversations and jukebox tunes playing softly in the background.
Then my cellphone rang. The news was delivered gently, carefully, almost tenderly by her sister—yet each word pierced through the veil dividing life into a clear before and after. Loss had arrived, uninvited, bringing with it a heaviness so profound it felt impossible to breathe, alongside an electric intensity buzzing through me as though I'd been struck by lightning.
My first instinct was to flee—to run back to the room, shower off the impossible truth, and scrub away the ache invading my entire being. But something inside whispered softly: Stay.
And so I sat. I sat on the bathroom floor, grief pouring into my chest, muscles, skin, and bones, knees tucked beneath my chin. At first, everything inside me tightened, resisting. The grief, the shock, the loss—it felt too big, too wild, too untamed. I felt reduced to an infinitesimal pinprick in the vastness of existence. How could she leave? It wasn't time yet. I'm not ready, I remember thinking again and again until I noticed the repetition. Repetition carries a quiet magic—it gently calls our attention to what's been overlooked, ignored, or in need of tending—even amidst profound grief.
As I observed the repeating mind-chatter, the story my mind was telling, something unexpected slowly happened. The grief didn’t shrink; rather, my heart expanded to hold it. I realized then that the intensity of grief mirrors the depth of our love—the pain of loss was evidence of how profoundly I'd loved my mentor. The ache became a companion, not an enemy. I let the tears come. I let the shaking come. And eventually, a tender stillness arrived too.
That day, on that bathroom floor, grief taught me something profound: we are far more capable of holding life's intensity than we ever imagine. Feelings don't need healing or solutions, they only ask for our attention, our courage to sit, notice, and allow. This is The Wildcrafted Way.
When I finally rose, grief rose with me—softer, quieter. It wasn’t gone. But it was held. Witnessed. Known.
Today, grief still visits from time to time. But it no longer frightens me. Instead, I clear a space beside me, inviting it to sit, letting it remind me of love, loss, the richness of feeling deeply, and honoring my mentor Renate.
This, I've learned, is also love.
Try This: Sitting Beside Your Emotion
When an intense emotion arises, pause. Instead of immediately reaching for a distraction, solution, or escape, try this:
Find somewhere comfortable to sit. Feel the support beneath you.
Let your body soften. Shoulders dropping, jaw unclenching, heart gently open.
Bring gentle attention to your breath, letting it anchor you.
Ask yourself softly: "What am I feeling right now?" Notice without naming it good or bad.
Place a hand where the feeling is strongest—your chest, belly, throat. Offer silent acknowledgment: “I am here. You are allowed to be.”
Sit quietly, breathing, for a few moments. Allow whatever arises to be fully felt, without trying to change it.
This isn't a practice of fixing. It’s a practice of friendship with yourself. With each moment you allow yourself to remain, you're gently expanding your capacity to hold the fullness of life. This, too, is The Wildcrafted Way.
Let this be enough. Let this be brave.
A Closing Invitation
If you find yourself resisting or fearing intense emotions, I wonder what might shift if you chose to sit beside them, even briefly. Not to heal, not to solve, but simply to stay. You might find, as I did, a quiet strength waiting just beyond the discomfort.
Stay Connected
If you’re walking with something tender, and these words met you there—I’d love to walk alongside you. You can find sessions, courses, and weekly reflections at thewildcraftedmysteryschool.com or jacquiedonahue.com. Or come join me on The Wildcrafted Podcast—real conversations with real people waking up to the mystery of their lives.
Yours in the Embrace of the Mystery,
Jacquie
