I've been sitting with something, and I wanted to think out loud with you. When people meet how I live with Honey's death, not devastated, not "over it," but genuinely alight when I talk about my daughter, it seems to land in different ways on the surface. For some, it feels brand new. Like they've never heard anyone talk about death this way, and a door opens they didn't know was there. And for some, something goes quiet and still. Not shock. More like recognition. Like a thing they always knew, that had somehow slipped out of reach. But here's what I've started to wonder. What if even the ones who think they're hearing it for the first time aren't, really? What if they're remembering too, and just haven't put that together yet? Because I don't think we get pulled toward things that are truly foreign to us. I think we get pulled toward what feels like home. And you're here. Something drew you to this space, to a room built around exactly this. Maybe that pull is the tell. Maybe it isn't new information at all. Maybe it's something old, waking up. And it would make sense that we'd have forgotten. Because we haven't always been this removed from death. Go back a century, not even that, and people died at home. Families washed them, sat with them, kept them close. The dead stayed part of the household, spoken to, remembered out loud, woven into ordinary life. And then, slowly, it was taken away. Handed to hospitals and back rooms and tidied out of sight, until in just a few generations we became strangers to the thing every generation before us lived alongside. So maybe the knowing didn't disappear. Maybe it just got buried. And maybe none of us are learning this for the first time so much as turning back toward something that was always there. I don't know for certain. I'm still wondering my way through it. But it's the question I keep coming back to. So I'd love to ask you. When you read that the connection doesn't end, what happened in your body? And why do you think you found your way here, to exactly this?

Honey I didn't know how loud silence could be until Honey wasn't there. No cries. No heartbeat. Just stillness stretching through every breath I took. There was peace too, strangely. A quiet presence. A companion. As if she had only come to open a door inside me, then slipped out quietly, without needing to say a word. Grief for a baby is a strange kind of grief. There are no years of memories to hold onto, no firsts, no stories, it's the future that doesn't come, the what-might-have-been. I would have loved to mother a daughter. And in some ways, I still do. Just not in the way most people can see. I mother her in the way I carry her presence. In the softness she left behind. In the way I speak her name. In the way I live more awake to the fragile, miraculous life in front of me. I mother her when I light a candle.When I tell her story.When I let her shape the way I love her brothers,and the way I meet the world with a little more tenderness. Honey changed everything. Now, when I look at my boys, I see walking miracles. Because they are. She gave me that sight, to see life more clearly, more tenderly, more fully. Since she came and went,my understanding of death has softened.I'm not afraid anymore.I've touched something infinite,a knowing that life doesn't end, it changes form.Our bond didn't end; it only changed shape. Grief changed me. She mothered me as much as I mothered her. And in the hollow she left behind, I found a steadier love, a wilder softness. A love that doesn't need to be seen to be real. A bond that doesn't end just because a heartbeat does. Honey didn't stay.But she gave me everything. If you feel called, tell us about your person - the one who died, or the one you're still carrying. Or simply what's brought you here. There's no right way to say it.

Hi everyone so yesterday Irish Oscar winning singer songwriter and actor Glen Hansard died aged 56. I listened to his music throughout my 20s and was lucky to get to go to many of his gigs. I met him back in 2011 and he was just as down to earth as I had imagined and we had a really in depth conversation about healing and the land and all sorts of weird and wonderful things. Well yesterday when I heard he had died in a motorcycle accident I was completely floored. It felt like a close friend had died. And I had only met the guy briefly. But his music had such a profound effect on me and I have even said to friends and my husband that I want some of his songs played at my funeral. I also think when something like this happens it brings up grief that’s already there and gives it a chance to be let out again. I lost a dear friend and my father in law whom I cared for this year. I feel a surge of grief coming up through my heart. Oh and there I go saying lost again! They’re not lost! Quite the opposite. Im yet to find the proper language around all of this 🤷‍♀️ Anyway I’ll share one of his lesser known songs. Together we will rise ❤️https://youtu.be/g9vxn9qiq5Q?is=u-AMuhABFlCagnGl

hey guys, looking forward to catching up this week 🥰 Let me know in the comments if you are coming to the session