Two Years of Residency

It's been two years since I last wrote here. I didn't disappear from this work; I went deeper. It has been a time defined by a profound 'residency' in both professional service and personal loss.

The Hospice Year: Theory Becomes Practice

Soon after I shared my practice here and with friends, I joined BeLoved Hospice as a hospice doula. I think of it as my professional residency after my doula training, where theory became practice. I sat at so many bedsides. I held hands. I watched bodies do what bodies do when they're letting go. I guided families to better understand what was happening, how to best support their person, and sat with them when things became hard. I returned over and over to presence and love.

When the Professional Becomes Personal

While I was learning at the bedsides of new friends, my mom was diagnosed with cancer.

Suddenly I wasn't just the death doula. I was the daughter. I was the one trying to coordinate care across state lines, the one navigating family dynamics, the one holding the phone waiting for updates. It was terrifying and all my talk of “letting go” was face to face with my desire to fix and grasp some kind of control of a situation that was so out of my control. And then my worst fear happened, my mom died while I was 3000 miles away from my family.

The Loneliness of the “Dead Mom” World

I used to think that turning toward death…studying it, training in it, supporting others through it, would make me feel more alive. That confronting mortality would illuminate life by contrast.

And for a while, it did.

But my grief has been different. Grief isn't contemplating death from a safe distance. I have been swimming in it. Mostly keeping my head above water, but just barely. My senses flattened with my grief. Dulled.

There's a loneliness to it that has surprised me. I live in the world of “my Mom is dead”.

My friends visit this world but even the most loving people have their own lives to return to. Some of it you carry alone, in the quiet hours, in the body, in the moments between. It's changed how I understand this work. Being in conversations around death in community, holding grief in community is more important to me than ever. This community time buoys the necessary alone time. Both are essential, both support one another.

What's Stirring: blue jae

Through all of this, something has clarified. I've landed on a posture that captures what I offer the world: turning toward. Turning toward death instead of away. Turning toward each other in the hard parts. Turning toward the questions without needing to resolve them. Turning toward suffering—mine and others'—with presence rather than fixes. This is all an ongoing practice, for me too.

The root meaning of compassion is "to suffer with." That's what I practice now. Not because I have answers, but because I've learned that we're not meant to face this alone. And in that togetherness, facing one of the hardest topics of our lifetime, we have access to deep connection with one another. What feels more alive than that?

Last time I wrote two years ago, it was at the time of Imbolc. And here we are, with another Imbolc around the corner, the old Celtic seasonal celebration at the midpoint between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. I honor these seasons to help pause and reflect on what has been, what needs to be let go and readying myself for whatever is next, all the while taking my cue from the natural world around me. At the time of Imbolc, there is a subtle shift underground, a slow tentative awakening. Winter is not over, but spring is stirring near. There is hope for something new and nourishing after Winter, even if we cannot name it quite yet.

It takes deep listening at the subtle shift of Imbolc. A quieting. No reaching or grasping. What do you hear?

Blue jae is like this right now—underground, stirring, not yet fully visible but alive. I'm protecting this tender new growth while it finds its shape.

I named this practice blue jae in honor of my mom, Julie Rae. Like the blue jay who fiercely protects its nest and stays present through all seasons, this is my way of creating a sanctuary where you can feel safe and seen. I’ve realized that this work requires us to hold both ends of the string: I help fill out the forms and I light the candle. One foot in the mundane, one in the mystery.

Blue jae is my offering to you. Let’s turn toward death together and see what emerges.