Sometimes the body needs to scream. When anger and grief collide and there are no words big enough, a scream can be a release valve—something primal, honest, and real. It lets the pressure rise and move instead of staying trapped in the chest and throat. In moments of deep loss or rage, screaming can validate the pain and bring a brief sense of grounding, a reminder that you’re still here, still feeling. It’s not a fix, and it’s not meant to replace support or longer-term healing, but it can be one small part of processing emotions that are simply too heavy to hold quietly. There is space here for that.

Grief doesn’t arrive neatly. It’s okay to feel angry and deeply sad, and then suddenly laugh at a memory—all in the same breath. None of that is wrong. And then, just as quickly, reality hits again. That heavy bulge in your chest. The tightness in your throat. The ache that feels too big for words. That is okay. Your body knows what it’s doing. It needs space to feel, to contract, to release, to remember.

Welcome. Grief, death, and dying live at the intersection of emotion, identity, spirituality, and nervous-system survival. They touch every part of who we are. Grief is not linear. It doesn’t follow rules or timelines. It can be raw, quiet, confusing, tender, and overwhelming—sometimes all at once. There is no “right” way to be here. My hope is that this community becomes a gentle container: a space where what has been lost is honored, where those who have passed are remembered, and where those who are still here can show up as they are. You don’t need to fix, explain, or perform your grief. You’re welcome to listen, to share, or simply to exist. This space is for both the passed and the present. I’m glad you’re here. 🤍