 Have you ever felt like you haven’t quite been yourself since something happened?
Maybe you can point to a particular moment: a breakup, a betrayal, an accident, an illness, the death of someone you loved, or a frightening experience. Or maybe there is no obvious moment at all. You simply know that somewhere along the way, you became less trusting. Less playful. Less confident. Less open. Less you. In shamanic traditions, one way of understanding this experience is through the idea of soul loss. Despite the name, soul loss doesn’t mean that your soul is actually lost, damaged, or incomplete. I prefer to think of it as a way of describing what can happen when an experience overwhelms us and some essential quality of ourselves seems to retreat. Soul retrieval is the practice of helping that part of ourselves come home.
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 Loving someone is different from carrying them. For those of us who are deeply empathetic, that difference can be surprisingly difficult to recognize.
Someone we love is hurting, and we hurt with them. They are anxious, and suddenly we are anxious too. They are struggling with a decision, a relationship, their health, their work, their finances—and before we realize what has happened, their problem has taken up residence inside of us. It hijacks our perfectly calm life. We think about it while driving. We wake up worrying about it. We search for solutions they haven't asked us to find. We monitor their mood. We wonder what we should say, what we should do, how we might make things better. Sometimes we even feel guilty when we are okay while someone we love is not. This can look like compassion. But sometimes it is self-abandonment, co-dependence, and/or emotional enmeshment.  You say you want peace.
But are you still expecting chaos? You say you want abundance. But somewhere underneath that desire, are you still telling yourself: There will never be enough. You say you want a loving relationship, meaningful work, more freedom, a different life. But are you still making choices from the version of you who learned that love isn’t safe, work has to be hard, money disappears, or freedom has to be earned? This is where manifestation gets interesting. Because wanting something and being aligned with it are not always the same thing.  There is a version of journaling that lives beautifully on social media.
A lovely notebook. A perfect cup of tea. Thoughtful handwriting flowing across cream-colored pages. Maybe a candle flickering nearby and a few carefully chosen words about gratitude, intention, or becoming your highest self. My journals do not look like that. Well, perhaps there is occasionally a cup of coffee nearby. And yes, there are pages filled with gratitude. Of course there are. But there are also pages filled with anger. Confusion. Heartbreak. Questions I don't know how to answer. Things I wish I had said. Things I probably shouldn't say. Arguments I've replayed ten different ways. Fears that sound less rational once I see them on paper. Moments when I have been hurt, misunderstood, disappointed, or simply exhausted by whatever life was asking of me. My journals are filled with the raw, messy emotions of being human. And I think that is precisely what makes them sacred.  There are truths we tell other people.
And then there are the truths we barely whisper to ourselves. I’m unhappy. I don’t actually want this anymore. I’m exhausted from being the strong one. I’m staying because I’m afraid. I want something different. I don’t know who I am outside of this role. Sometimes these truths arrive quietly. They appear in the shower, on a long drive, in the few minutes before we fall asleep. We feel them in our bodies before we have words for them—a heaviness in the chest, a tightening in the jaw, a weariness that sleep doesn’t seem to touch. And then, almost as quickly as they surface, we push them away. Because admitting something to ourselves can feel dangerous. If I admit I’m unhappy, does that mean I have to change my life? If I acknowledge that I don’t want this anymore, does that mean I have to leave? If I admit that I’m tired of being the strong one, who will take care of everyone? If I allow myself to want something different, what happens to everything I have built? These are big questions. And sometimes we avoid the truth because we believe that acknowledging it will immediately require us to do something about it. But it doesn’t. Sometimes the first step is simply allowing ourselves to know what we already know.  Have you ever heard yourself say something and immediately wondered, Why did I react like that?
Maybe someone offered a small piece of feedback and you became instantly defensive. Maybe a conversation became emotionally charged and, rather than staying present, you shut down. You stopped talking. You couldn't find the words. Part of you simply wanted to get away. Maybe uncertainty makes you want to take control. Or when you feel hurt, you withdraw from the very person you wish would come closer. Sometimes our reactions seem disproportionate to what is actually happening. A casual comment can sting for hours. A change of plans can create surprising anxiety. Someone's tone of voice can trigger anger, fear, or sadness that seems to come from nowhere. It can be tempting to judge these parts of ourselves. Why am I so sensitive? Why do I always do this? Why can't I just let it go? But I think there is a more interesting—and far more compassionate—question we can ask: What might this behavior be trying to protect, express, or tell me?  There is a conversation happening inside you all day long.
Most of us simply aren't listening. A tightening in the shoulders. A flutter in the stomach. A heaviness that arrives when we walk into a particular room. Fatigue that seems disproportionate to what we've done. A sudden sense of ease around one person and contraction around another. And sometimes, in my case, a jaw clenched so tightly you'd think I was preparing for battle. The interesting thing is that I don't necessarily feel stressed when I notice it. I'll be driving, working at my computer, reading, or going about an otherwise ordinary day when suddenly I become aware of my jaw. My teeth are pressed together. The muscles around my mouth are holding tension. I've learned not to immediately ask, What's wrong with me? or even What am I stressed about? Instead, I notice. Oh, sweetheart. You're holding again. I soften my jaw. Let my tongue relax. Drop my shoulders. Take a long, slow breath. Sometimes that's all there is to it. And sometimes, when I become quiet enough, I realize there is something underneath the tension that my thinking mind hadn't acknowledged yet.  This weekend, I did something I haven't done in a very long time.
I bought a tent. Not a luxury hotel. Not a beautiful Airbnb. Not a cozy cabin tucked into the woods. A simple tent. Along with a sleeping pad, sleeping bag, camp stove, and all the little bits of gear that somehow make sleeping on the ground feel like coming home. As we packed everything into the car, I realized this wasn't really something new at all. It was something deeply remembered.  There was a time when our ancestors understood that life moved in seasons. Birth, adulthood, partnership, motherhood, elderhood, death, and every meaningful transition between them were marked with ceremony. People gathered. Stories were shared. Tears were welcomed. Wisdom was passed from one generation to the next. No one was expected to navigate life's greatest changes alone.
Somewhere along the way, many of those rituals disappeared.  When we hear the word grief, most of us immediately think of death. We picture funerals, condolences, and the aching absence of someone we love. That is certainly one of life's deepest sorrows. But grief wears many faces, and some of the most profound losses we experience are the ones no one else can see.
Hidden grief quietly accompanies many of life's transitions. It appears when we let go of an old version of ourselves, when a dream quietly fades, when relationships change, or when life leads us down a path we never expected to walk. Because these losses often go unnamed, we may not recognize that grief is what we are carrying. |
AuthorTerri Lundquist Archives
September 2026
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