Reading · Grieve Fully, Live Fully

I’m truly honoured to be sharing today’s guest post with you! Jeannie Ewing is someone I admire deeply. She writes with such honesty, depth, and compassion, and has an incredible gift for putting language to the experiences we often struggle to name.

In this piece, she shares what it was like to welcome new life into the world, just as the world itself was shutting down. Her story really struck a chord with me — not only because our middle child was also born during the pandemic, but because of the way she writes about grief. Jeannie shows us that grief isn’t only about death. It’s also there in the sudden ruptures, when life shifts in ways we never saw coming.

Above all, she reminds us that while grief is unbearably heavy, it doesn’t have to be our undoing. It can walk beside us, guide us, and even open us up to something deeper that we could have ever imagined.

For those who want to explore grief in a more intentional, reflective, and supported way, Jeannie is offering a four-week Journaling Through Grief series. You’ll find all the details and the link to sign up below. If this feels like something you need right now, I highly encourage you to check it out!

On March 13, 2020, I cradled our fifth baby, Auggie, while my husband Ben absentmindedly watched the wall-mounted TV in my postpartum recovery room. Suddenly, he turned up the volume, and I tuned my ear to listen more carefully. We heard a newscaster share unprecedented news: Major League Baseball would cancel its season until further notice, and Disney World was shutting down indefinitely.

What was going on?

I asked the nurse, who ambled in to check my vitals, and she shrugged while casually replying, “Oh, it’s this coronavirus originating from China. We’re ready for it. We have an area cordoned off to quarantine patients who contract it. No big deal.” Then she patted my arm and added, “Good thing you’re heading home today.”

When Ben and I arrived home with our little bundle, we were greeted by my parents and four other children: Felicity, age nine; Sarah, age seven; Veronica, age three; and Joey, barely over a year old. With five kids under the age of ten, I knew I would need help, but it became evident immediately that I would need to cancel the babysitter and housecleaner I’d lined up as support in those early postpartum days.

My emotions were shaky, anyway, from this pregnancy, which I’d felt conflicted about from the onset. I was nearing age forty, and to say this was unexpected would be an understatement. My lifeline was my community, my village that included family and friends who could rotate shifts and provide an extra set of hands while I napped or took care of the laundry.

None of that was going to happen.

In an instant, I felt my heart plunge into a darkness I’d only known once before, when our daughter Sarah was born with a rare genetic condition called Apert syndrome. Now that the world had been upended by a novel and deadly virus, no one dared come close to another human they didn’t live with. Holed up and isolated in a house with five tiny humans quickly dragged me toward the precipice of despair.

And grief.

I took daily walks with my kids to our neighborhood park, though the playground had been sectioned off with a warning not to touch any equipment. This was to maintain a semblance of routine and provide a sense of normalcy for them—and for me. As I sauntered around the walking path, pushing Auggie in the stroller, I allowed the tears to freely cascade down my cheeks.

And I let everything in, because I opened my heart.

Grief wants that from us—an open heart. It’s always knocking, and most of the time we numb it, bypass it, minimize it, and deny it. We’re afraid of grief, because we think it means facing a level of pain we can’t imagine. It’s true that sometimes grief is harsh, and it doesn’t ask permission for entry into our lives. But mostly it wants to serve in the role of a mentor and accompany us through life.

No one leaves this world unscathed, and we are all affected by devastating loss.

I don’t know what you’re going through right now, but I know you are carrying invisible burdens that may need some tender loving care. I get that it’s hard to carve out time for sitting with grief, acknowledging and welcoming its presence, and listening to what it wants to tell you. But what if I also told you that grief isn’t going to traumatize you? Its purpose is to gently guide you toward a healing pathway, and that’s the invitation I want to offer you today.

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If grief is a manifestation of our capacity to love, then I invite you to join my friend Sam and me to enter a sacred time and space in an intimate gathering, where you can show up as you are—no expectations, no questions asked.

We can’t carry what you carry, but we can carry you.

Every Tuesday in October, from 6:30–8:00 pm (ET) on Zoom, we’ll gather for a four-week series exploring grief as presence, process, transformation, and integration. Through grounding practices, reflective prompts, journaling, and optional sharing, we’ll companion one another in creating space for grief’s many forms.

Here’s what participants shared after our one-day workshop:

“Jeannie and Sam hold space with such tender professionalism that I felt instantly at home, even among people I had never met… What unfolded was an invitation to honor grief as a living presence without fear or shame. I left feeling lighter, connected, and deeply grateful for the care they pour into their work.” — Teri Leigh

“Jeannie and Sam’s Journaling Through Grief seminar is a beautifully crafted, gently led space for considering grief and for giving oneself and each other the gift of time and attention for expressing it rather than holding it all in.” — Kyle Fisk

✨ The cost for the full series is $200 per participant. No writing experience is needed—only a willingness to show up as you are, with words or with silence. You can register below.

Jeannie, thank you so much for sharing this piece with my community!

What I most appreciate about her words is how they create space for the rawness of grief, the complexity of motherhood, and the possibility that even in our hardest seasons, something transformative can emerge.

If this resonated with you, I definitely recommend you subscribe to her beautiful newsletter “I Grow Strong Again” — and consider joining the Journaling Through Grief series she and her friend Sam are offering this October. It’s a chance to show up as you are and be companioned through the process of writing and reflection.

What’s coming up next for me?

IN MY NEXT POST, I’ll be wrapping up our Grief Support Series by exploring how we can become our own steady support when loss reshapes our lives.

I’ll share ways to hold ourselves with kindness, to notice and honour our emotions, and to create small rituals and practices that help us feel grounded when the world feels unsteady.

Grief asks for presence, not perfection — and I hope you’ll join me to reflect on what that can look like in our own lives.

Thank you for being here and supporting my work. I am truly grateful!

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"Postpartum in a Pandemic: How ordinary walks and quiet sorrow taught me what grief asks of us"

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