You Can't Have Transformation Without Grief

Do you ever get intuitive hits that knock you completely off your feet?

Earlier this year, I had the privilege of working with Jacques, the most extraordinary Human Design executive coach. She had me explore the different "eras" of my life using the framework of my human design. When I sat with my recent years, I entitled my 2021-2024 era "The phoenix." When asked to describe the arc, words tumbled out: "I felt broken. I was deeply exhausted. Everything was in flux."

And when I defined what I wanted my next era to be, I chose "Mischief and magic, out loud." This era screams "LFG" and "IDGAF" daily. It is embodied, intuitive, outspoken. I can feel it—I can feel this era on the horizon, calling to me.

But lately, life has felt relentless. Like every door I approach slams shut. Like the universe is saying "not yet, not you, not now." I've been doubting myself, questioning what I want, wondering if I even deserve to impact the world the way I dream of doing.

Then this morning, on my drive into work, I had a moment of visceral clarity. What I realized is that the universe wasn't saying "no." The universe was reminding me: You can't move forward until you grieve.

I am learning that what's holding me back isn't the future—it's that I haven't adequately honored what needs to be released to step into this new era.

The losses, big & small, have been accumulating like stones.

In May 2024, we made the heart-wrenching decision to move from our beloved first-ring, walkable, quaint hometown to the suburbs to ensure our kids had proper educational support. Our entire family is still processing this loss of place, of community, of a life we loved. Earlier this year, we lost our pit bull, Gibson, who had been with us for fifteen years. It was a beautiful death filled with love, snuggles, and ease, but grief doesn't care how beautiful the goodbye was. Just weeks ago, we lost our Great Dane in a way that was unexpected and traumatic, leaving us reeling.

Personally, over the last eighteen months, I've lost friends. Some by conscious choice, some who drifted away for reasons I'll never fully understand. I've lost a grandmother I never quite connected with, but her death means a door between us is permanently closed.

At work, I've lost colleagues—not just coworkers, but a safety net of people I care about deeply, whom I trusted without question, who I knew would pick me up and dust me off if I stumbled.

This morning, that accumulation of grief, that stockpiling of change, hit me with startling force.

Until this morning, I kept my gaze fixed forward, scanning for what's next, strategizing my next move. Part of this is my intrinsic nature—the only strength that has remained consistent in my top five on the CliftonStrengths assessment is Futuristic. I am possibility-oriented, change-oriented, a dreamer by design.

But I think in this phase of life, I'm looking ahead because looking back feels too raw, too overwhelming.

Looking back means I must let the dam break. I must let the tears flow freely. I must say goodbye when every fiber of me wants to say stay. But I can't have it both ways. I can't journey forward while clinging to what was.

So where do I go from here? How do I let this grief exist without letting it consume me?

I am learning that the first step is allowing myself not to be okay. As a mother, as a leader, it's my instinct to be the steady one. To be, as much as possible, the calm, anchoring force in the storm. But how do I give myself permission to be the storm sometimes? How do I convince myself it's safe to not be okay?

And I think that's exactly what my next era is waiting for. It's waiting for me to say, "I'm not okay, but I'm not broken." It's waiting for me to love myself in my low moments as much as I love my people in theirs. It's calling for me to create a little sanctuary within myself where I can feel deeply, grieve fully, and trust that this too is sacred work.

Grief is not the enemy of transformation. Grief is its midwife.

The Phoenix doesn't rise from comfort zones or untested ground. It rises from the complete honoring of what was before it becomes what's next. It rises from ashes, from fire, from the willingness to let everything burn so something new can be born.

Maybe my mischief and magic era isn't as far away as I thought. Maybe it's been patiently waiting in those ashes, ready to emerge the moment I stop running from the flames and start dancing with them instead.

Today, I grieve. And that is perfect. That is powerful. That is exactly where transformation begins.

Today, I choose to burn completely. Tomorrow, I will choose to rise.