When the Tears Come: Grief, Healing, and Learning to Live Aloha
Slowing down is easier said than done when your whole life has been trained to be on go, go, go. Yesterday, I cried several times. At one point, I almost thought I was having a panic attack. My heart was racing, the tears would not stop, and I felt emotionally flooded. As I sat with it, I realized what I was experiencing was not a panic attack. It was emotional overwhelm.
The past two months have brought more change than I think I've fully allowed myself to acknowledge. We moved from New York to Hawaiʻi and I've been navigating motherhood, taking care of our home, carrying emotional labor, building my Transform & Thrive business, planning for the future, managing uncertainty, and trying to create stability for my family while I am still finding my own footing.
It's been exhausting treading water while trying to keep everyone and everything else afloat.
As I sat there crying, I found myself asking questions that have been showing up often lately:
Why is living with less so hard?
Why is unlearning hustle culture so hard?
Why is letting go of control so hard?
Why does change feel so uncomfortable even when it is something you chose?
I don't have all the answers, but I am learning that many of those questions point back to the same thing: capacity
When Your Capacity Is Running Low
What does capacity actually look like? How do we know when we're starting to run out of it?
I think our bodies often know before our minds are willing to admit it. As I reflected on what I was feeling, I thought about the book The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk. Our bodies have a way of communicating when our systems need support.
Sometimes it looks like tears, anxiety, exhaustion, irritability, brain fog, or feeling emotionally reactive. The body and heart have a way of telling us when something needs attention.
The challenge is that many of us have been conditioned to push through the signals rather than listen to them.
We wait until we are overwhelmed before giving ourselves permission to rest. We wait until we break before asking for support.
Lately, I have been wondering what it would look like to become more proactive instead of reactive. What if we learned to recognize the signs earlier and respond with compassion before reaching our limit?
What Healing Has Been Teaching Me
Part of this season has involved learning more about grief, healing, and growth.
What does healing actually feel like? How do you know if you're getting better?
During therapy this week, I asked my therapist how she would describe healing.
Some of the insights that stayed with me were:
We are always a work in progress
Healing often happens through subtle steps forward
Growth comes from understanding yourself more deeply
Momentum matters
The same triggers begin to lose their power over time
You recognize and use the tools you've learned to cope
You acknowledge your wounds without judging yourself for having them
You learn that it is okay to feel what you're feeling
One of my biggest takeaways was that healing is often quieter than we expect. It isn't always a breakthrough moment. Sometimes healing looks like responding differently than you would have six months ago, recovering faster, having more awareness than you had before, or giving yourself permission to cry because your body is asking to be heard.
Naming the Grief
One thing I've learned recently is that grief is not limited to death. Grief is the emotional response to loss, change, and unmet expectations. It exists in the space between what was and what is, what you hoped for and what happened, and what you expected and what you're currently experiencing.
As I sat with my emotions, I realized there are many things I am grieving.
I am grieving the life we left behind
The first home we ever bought together
The familiarity of our routines
Our East Coast friendships (currently a 6-hour time difference)
My professional identity
The predictability of knowing how life worked
I am also grieving certainty
Lately, there has been far more uncertainty than stability, and that feels scary.
There is comfort in knowing what comes next, familiar routines, and clear plans. This season has asked me to surrender much of that. I am also grieving a version of this chapter that existed in my imagination. Sometimes reality does not match the picture we carry in our minds.
The move has been beautiful in many ways, but it has also been harder than I expected.
My tears are telling me to honor what has been lost while still creating space for what is being built.
I am grieving the gap between how I hoped this transition would feel and the reality of what it has required of me.
The Space Between Letting Go and Becoming
Growth is uncomfortable because it requires us to stretch beyond what feels familiar.
Lately, I have thought about it like stretching a piece of playdough. You keep pulling and adapting and adjusting until eventually something has to give.
I recently heard another analogy that resonated with me. It's like driving with one foot on the gas and one foot on the brake. You burn energy but never fully move forward.
Momentum matters, Not hustle or rushing. It’s about intentional momentum that is aligned with your values and moves at a pace that is sustainable.
When something repeatedly drains me, it is usually worth getting curious about why. What value feels misaligned? What boundary needs attention? What is this experience trying to teach me?
The more I pay attention, the more I realize that our emotions are often messengers. They help us understand ourselves more deeply and guide us toward what needs healing, attention, or change.
A Reminder From My Daughter
Yesterday, my daughter saw me crying. As overwhelmed as I felt at that moment, something beautiful happened. She reminded me to take a deep breath.
The same calming tools I have spent years teaching her were offered back to me. At that moment, she became the teacher and I became the student.
It was a reminder that sometimes the people we are trying to care for are also caring for us in ways we don't expect.
Learning to Live Aloha
As part of my Becoming Aloha journey, I recently searched for the question: What does it mean to live aloha?
One perspective that resonated with me came from learning about pono. Pono is often understood as righteousness, balance, and doing what is right, not only for ourselves but for the greater whole. It is about accountability, stewardship, and recognizing that our actions affect the community around us.
As someone who spent much of her life in environments that rewarded achievement, productivity, and individual success, this perspective feels refreshing. It reminds me that life is not only about what we accomplish for ourselves. It is also about how we contribute, care for others, and leave things better than we found them.
I also came across the Pono Pledge, which encourages people to care for the land and sea, respect wildlife, honor safety, practice stewardship, and embrace the spirit of aloha.
One line stayed with me: "Take wisdom and make it deep."
The more I sit with that phrase, the more I realize that this season is asking me to do exactly that. Not to rush through the discomfort, bypass the grief, or pretend everything is fine. Take the time to sit with the lessons long enough for them to become part of me.
I don't think healing is about becoming someone entirely new. I think healing is about understanding yourself more deeply, honoring what has been lost, and trusting that who you are becoming is being shaped by every experience along the way.
As difficult as this season has been, I can also see the growth that is happening beneath the surface. I can feel myself letting go of old expectations, old definitions of success, and old versions of myself that no longer fit.
Maybe that is what becoming aloha means for me right now: learning to move through life with greater awareness, deeper compassion, and more trust that even in seasons of uncertainty, there is wisdom waiting to be found if we are willing to slow down and listen.
Journal Prompt
What am I grieving right now, and how can I honor what has been lost while still creating space for what is becoming?
