don’t cry for me, cry with me

Dec 3

I’m on the floor as I write this because I need to stay grounded.

My eyes are closed as I type because I need to recount everything I just experienced. It was a deeply personal experience, but something in me says it needs to be shared. So here we go.

My breath is steady. My body is weak. My heart is light. It’s what the end of a big emotional release feels like for me.

I tried to go to boxing this morning, but the universe said no. Then I tried to go to yoga, but the universe knew my time was better spent at home. So I listened. I did some movement at home. Stretched, strengthened, moved. Then I got upside down.

There’s a poster my sister-in-law made for my husband’s celebration of life. It hangs in our living room — the one room that’s supposedly safe from flying objects. But between the workout ball and the oversized chair, my youngest has turned that space into his personal soccer field. The poster sits right behind the chair and ends up taking the brunt of his “overshots.” Right now, it’s draped over the chair.

So when I went upside down this morning, it was there. Draped over the chair. The pictures actually rightside up with me while I was upside down. That’s how I saw the picture of my husband and I. Smiling. Hugging. Living.

Then I felt it coming like a semi truck. All the emotions. I curled up into a child’s pose and let it overtake me.

I stayed present to all of it. I allowed myself to feel all of it – the deep fear that sits in my bones, the physiological pain and exhaustion from so many terrible memories, the deeper pain from so many good memories that I can’t make more of.

I wasn’t crying. I was releasing. This type of release isn’t pretty. It’s not small. It’s massive. The overwhelm, the sadness, the emotions – all of it coming out from every area where it had been lodged in my body.

I rocked. I wailed. I screamed. This isn’t for the faint of heart. But it’s human, and we are built to handle it.

As every intense emotion crashed through me wave after wave, it helped me to think about all the things I know and have learned. Like I’m safe to feel all of this. And I know I’ll come out on the other side even though it doesn’t feel like it.

And then for some reason I liken what I’m going through at that moment to my experience during childbirth. So strange for it to come up, but actually makes a lot of sense. The fear of not being able to hold it all. The overwhelm of every sensation piercing through me. The physical pain isn’t the same. But it’s a portal, just like childbirth. I can feel as another layer is shed.

That’s when I remember Greg guiding me through both of my labors. And how amazing he was in both of them. Literally the best birth coach I could have asked for. By my side the entire time. He was my biggest cheerleader, with the steadiest energy I ever saw him hold. When I wanted to give up, he’d say exactly what I needed to hear. When I thought I was going to die from the intensity of it all, he was there keeping me grounded with him.

And then I realize he’s not here now. He’s not coaching me through this one. It’s just me, the chair and the earth and the immense emotional wave crashing through me with this realization.

Breathe. Scream. Release.

I sit up and prop myself on the back of the oversized chair (aka soccer net). It holds me. So does the ground. I keep breathing. I notice all the areas of my body that are speaking in this moment. My stomach. My throat. My heart.

And then I see it. I zero in on a picture from my first labor. I’m puffy and exhausted, my husband is glowing and so proud. I know that’s him telling me he’s here. Still my biggest cheerleader.

Oh god it hurts.

More rocking. More crying.

And then finally, the intensity subsides a little. It’s almost as if my legs are detached from my body. They’re there, but in this moment they aren’t needed. They don’t need to carry me anywhere right now. I just need to be held.

The next round of tears come. This time less intense, but they hold a different type of sadness. I feel so much loss for myself, my boys, and all those who loved my husband. For what I thought my life would be with him. For the pain we all share.

Oh I miss him. All the time. But I’m so grateful for what we had, and what I will always have because of him.

I begin to notice my legs again. I rub them to feel the sensation of them. I hold my stomach, I run my thumb across each fingertip, I feel each tear across my cold face. I breathe.

Then I see my dog. Her bed happens to be right next to where I am sitting. She’s been sleeping the whole time. Ha. But I see her steadiness. Her calm. She’s holding space for me (at least that’s what I like to think).

I breathe. I keep noticing my body. Knowing that right now, it’s important to stay in my body and ground into the space I’m in. I want to be aware of what my body is telling me. I need to allow this to fully close, leaving no open wounds.

The tears stop. I get to all fours and rock slowly. When I’m ready I stand. I finish on the yoga wheel to open my back and heart, to close out the rollercoaster I just went on.

Don’t cry for me, cry with me.

This wheel. Here I am again. Back at it.

I remember coming down to this wheel in the middle of the night after an especially hard doctor appointment with my husband. I felt so scared and helpless. Sleep wasn’t coming so I walked downstairs to the living room. It was fully lit up by the moon. I grabbed the wheel and wrapped my body around it and just lost it. There in the moonlight, I rocked and cried as quietly as I could so I didn’t wake anyone up. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But it is. And for him, for me, for my boys…I will keep going.

I’m not sure who I needed to write this for but I hope it finds you. And I hope you know that you’re not alone and that you can do this. It’s not easy. But you are truly stronger than you know.

We all are.

Until next time — with all my love and soul,

Courtney

About the author

Hey there

I’m Courtney

I’m the founder of Journey Through Bliss, a movement and community dedicated to helping women return to themselves while navigating the beautiful, busy complexity of modern life. As a Somatic Soulwork Facilitator and Multi-Modality Guide, I support women in restoring their nervous system safety, reconnecting with their intuition, and integrating diverse healing practices without overwhelm.

None of this is about abandoning responsibilities—it’s about cultivating rhythms, rituals, and relationships that help women thrive right where they are. Having walked my own path through loss, motherhood, and rebuilding, I offer both grounded tools and soulful expansion. Through programs, events, workshops and community spaces, I invite women to experience the clarity, confidence, and bliss that comes from living in alignment with their true selves.

Whether online or in person, I promise to do my best to provide safe, inclusive, and deeply rooted spaces—where women feel seen, supported, and celebrated as they awaken to who they really are.

I do this work based on a simple, but radical belief: we were all born with magic. We just forgot. And remembering is always worth it.