Simplicity

In April, I was hosting my first retreat on the island of Kalymnos, Greece.

On the third day, I received a message from one of Neil's coworkers: something had happened.

What followed was a whirlwind of logistics, difficult decisions, and impossible moments. Somehow, in the middle of shock and uncertainty, I managed to stay collected enough to rearrange flights, pack our belongings, and get home. Leaving Kalymnos is never simple. Getting from a small island in the Aegean back to the mountains of Northern Nevada usually takes time.

We made it home in twenty-four hours.

I spent the following week in the hospital beside Neil as he remained on life support. I was carried through those days by my daughter, my mother, our family, and the incredible support of the fire service community.

Then came another whirlwind.

In a small mountain town, grief becomes public very quickly. The love that surrounded our family was overwhelming in the best possible way. Meals appeared on our doorstep. Messages arrived from people I had never met. Friends and strangers stepped forward to help carry what felt impossible to carry alone.

I will spend the rest of my life grateful for that support.

But eventually, I realized I needed something different.

I needed space.

The day before I left, we said goodbye to our beloved dog, Endo, compounding an already unbearable season. The house suddenly felt impossibly quiet. Every room carried the weight of absence.

So I returned to Kalymnos.

I didn't go to escape my grief. Grief has a way of traveling with you.

I went because I needed room to breathe. I needed to walk through a grocery store without running into someone who knew our story. I needed distance from the home we had built together and from the constant reminders of everything that had changed.

Grief is not for the weak.

It is the hardest thing I have ever done.

Every day I am reminded that I will never see Neil again or hear his voice again. We spent eighteen years together. Eighteen extraordinary years filled with adventure, laughter, partnership, and love. For that, I am profoundly grateful.

So I returned to the island we loved.

The island we dreamed of someday calling home.

And slowly, simplicity began to do what complexity could not.

Coffee on the veranda in the morning.

The sound of chickens somewhere down the road.

Afternoons in the sea.

Yoga.

Meditation.

Long walks.

Sunsets.

There was nowhere to hide from the discomfort, the heartbreak, or the loneliness. But there was also space to sit with it.

The island didn't fix my grief.

The sea didn't take it away.

Healing rarely arrives in dramatic moments.

Instead, it arrived quietly.

In sunlight on my skin.

In salt water.

In conversations with friends.

In allowing myself to cry when the tears came and rest when they didn't.

The simple things didn't erase the pain.

They simply made it possible to carry.

I still see Neil in every sunset.

I still feel him in every breeze.

And while grief is nowhere near over, this simple corner of the world reminded me of something important:

Sometimes healing doesn't ask us to do more.

Sometimes it asks us to return to less.