12/07/2025
In my work—walking alongside people through divorce—I am surrounded by endings. I see the heaviness of goodbyes every day: the unraveling of shared lives, the grief of what was supposed to be, and the quiet moments when someone realizes that love, at least as they knew it, is slipping away. There is a particular ache in those moments, one that settles deep in the chest. When clients say goodbye to the life they built, the future they envisioned, or the person they once trusted, it reminds me of how I’ve had to learn to live with absences in my own life.
During the COVID years, I was navigating a major move from one coast to the other, rebuilding life from scratch once again, while the world itself felt uncertain. At the same time, my mother was battling her two-year struggle with pancreatic cancer—a slow, painful goodbye that reshaped every corner of my heart. The grief of that time didn’t come all at once; it unfolded in layers, day after day, moment after moment.
I turned to a creative outlet I’d relied on since high school—that helped me process what I couldn’t put into words as everything around me was changing. But alongside those healthier tools, I also fell into patterns that were much less supportive—numbing rather than nurturing. I knew I had to confront them before they grew into something even more destructive. I thank my g-d for helping me do so. Those experiences—my mother’s illness, the move, the global uncertainty, the ways I fumbled and found my way back to myself—now sit quietly behind the work I do each day.
The acrylic paintings I created during that time — the ocean as a metaphor for the constant push-and-pull of grief, resilience, and renewal. The forest with roots stretching deep beneath the autumn leaves has become a quiet anchor in my workspace. I keep it on the left side of the wall above my screen, where I see it every day.
Those roots feel like the parts of us that hold memory, strength, and history in place, even when everything above the surface is shifting. This piece reflects the way grief settles: a landscape forever altered. The river continues to flow, soft and steady, carrying echoes of love that remain. It is a reminder that loss reshapes us, but love never leaves.
In a way, the paintings mirror what I see every day: the resilience beneath the grief, the roots beneath the loss, and the quiet endurance of love long after goodbye. To my clients and collaborative community: thank you.
