Re-membering — Finding Our Way Back to What Still Belongs

Amy Oledzki on November 3, 2025

November ushers in a profound shift. The days grow shorter, darkness lingers longer, and the cold begins its slow settling in. For many who are grieving, this seasonal descent mirrors the inner landscape of loss. We become aware of what has been taken, what feels missing, and what life has made painfully out of place. Loss, in many ways, dis-members us—pulling apart what once felt whole, steady, or deeply anchored in love.

But November, with its gentle cultural invitation to gather, to reflect, to break bread, and to give thanks, offers another path forward. The path of Re-membering. Not remembering, as in merely recalling memories, but Re-membering, as the opposite of dismembering: bringing back together the parts of our story, our identity, and our love – ours still to keep.

When the Heart Can’t Look Back (Yet)

In the early throes of grief, memory can feel unbearable. I worked with a male client who lost the love of his life. The photographs of their travels, the souvenirs of family adventures, and the once-treasured albums sat untouched. He asked me through tears, “Will I ever be able to look at these again?” In that season, he could not. The memories brought searing pain, not comfort. He judged himself for it, wondering why love had become so intolerable to look at.

The truth is this: in early grief, protecting ourselves is not avoidance—it’s survival. With time, compassion, and gentleness, shifts. Months later, he told me he sat down with those same albums, this time with a candle lit beside him. He smiled. He cried. He paused. He continued. But he could look. The memories, he said, “came back like warm waves instead of cold knives.” This is Re-membering—when the story becomes integrated again, and love, not shock, sets the tone.

The Role of Nature and the language of plants is something we incorporate in our model of care. Periwinkle is the flower for the month and has long symbolized fidelity, everlasting love, and spiritual connection. Its evergreen nature reminds us that some bonds—especially those forged in deep love—do not die. Even in the coldest months, its presence whispers, “what is rooted in the heart remains.”

Bringing periwinkle imagery, dried flowers, or watercolor art into your space can act as a gentle anchor during November. Nature not only reflects where we are—it helps guide us to what’s next.

Another grounding companion is the doTERRA Balance® Essential Oil. For those grieving, grounding is essential. The doTERRA Balance® blend, with its steady, wood-forward aroma, offers emotional centering when life feels unmoored. A drop to the wrists, over the heart, or on the bottoms of the feet can support the nervous system and create space for calmer breathing, emotional stability, and greater connection to the present moment. When we are grounded, we are more capable of Re-membering gently, without drowning in the past or bracing against it.

The November heart can bring gratitude and giving. It brings thanks-giving—not just as a holiday, but as a posture. Gratitude does not erase grief, but it can coexist with it. Neuroscience shows that giving thanks and engaging in altruism can increase serotonin and dopamine levels, elevating mood and nurturing a sense of meaning and connection. When we give of ourselves—especially while grieving—we momentarily step out of our pain and into purpose.

Some of the most healing practices in November can include:

  • Writing one simple gratitude each day.
  • Helping someone anonymously.
  • Sending a card to a caregiver, widow, or grieving friend.
  • Volunteering, even in a small capacity.
  • Sharing a meal or donating one.

Altruism helps stitch the heart back together. It reminds us: We still matter. We can still contribute. We are still connected.

As we transition into the giving season and the colder start of the change of season, may you Re-member what is still yours, ground yourself with breath, earth, and calming aromatherapy, honor memories at a pace that is gentle, not forced, receive the symbols of nature as teachers and companions, and give and give thanks, not to bypass grief, but to let light in.

As winter approaches, may you find that what once felt broken can become rearranged—not as it was before, but as something whole in a new way. Love remains. You are still here. Your story continues, and it still deserves warmth, connection, and peace.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director

Focus of the Month: Re-membering
Essential Oil: Balance
Flower: Periwinkle

Beyond Yourself: Finding Ground in Grief During Autumn

Amy Oledzki on October 6, 2025

Autumn carries with it a unique duality—a beauty that invites reflection and a reminder of inevitable change. Leaves shift from vibrant greens to fiery reds and golds, daylight wanes, and the air grows crisp. For caregivers, this season can mirror the internal landscape of grief: moments of vivid memory, tinged with loss, and a sense of transition that can feel both beautiful and unsettling.

Caregivers experience loss throughout their journey—not only the eventual passing of a loved one but also the slow erosion of familiar routines, physical independence, and shared dreams. Often, the weight of this emotional labor is carried quietly, and reaching out for support can feel like an indulgence rather than a necessity. Yet, it is precisely during these moments, when life feels beyond your control, that stepping outside yourself to seek support creates a profound opportunity: the chance to live in a moment beyond yourself.

The Power of Emotional Support

Grief can be isolating, but it does not need to be endured alone. Emotional support—whether through a trusted friend, a counselor, or a support group—offers caregivers a space to share, reflect, and be witnessed without judgment. It allows for the release of pent-up feelings, the validation of experiences, and the gentle reminder that grief is not a linear process. By reaching out, caregivers’ step beyond the self-imposed isolation and embrace a moment of shared humanity. In this act, even the heaviest moments of loss can become slightly more bearable.

Nature as a Grounding Force

Autumn’s natural rhythms mirror the journey of loss, offering a quiet guide toward a feeling of being grounded. I know I have mentioned this many times in my blogs, and maybe I am starting to sound like a broken record, but connecting to nature works. While I share my experience from the other day, please know that this is not meant to be a comparison to the grief we all feel as described above; it merely is an example of how powerful connecting to nature can be.

I was at Hope Grows over the weekend helping my spouse with the leaves and cutting the grass when the utility vehicle we were using would not start. We were back in the woods when we realized the battery was the problem. We were far enough away from an electric source for jumping the battery that caused annoyance and frustration. We were both tired and almost done with the work, and we started to experience a sense of defeat: a loss of time, as we both saw it, time that we thought we couldn’t spare. Instead of expressing the emotions, I suggested we lean back in our seats and look up into the trees, and take some deep breaths. WOW! Within a few minutes we both could feel the benefit from connecting to nature. It truly is a grounding force.

Moments of loss and the emotion that comes with it is overwhelming. It doesn’t have to be if we choose another path, such as walking among the shifting trees, noticing the crispness of the air, or observing the slow descent of falling leaves. This process encourages mindfulness—a way to root oneself in the present. Nature gently reminds us of life’s cycles, the inevitability of endings, and the quiet persistence of renewal. These encounters do not erase grief but provide a tangible anchor, a steadying presence amidst emotional turbulence.

Living Beyond Yourself

When caregivers engage with emotional support and connect with nature, they participate in a practice of living beyond themselves. It is an acknowledgment that grief, while intensely personal, is also shared across the human experience. These practices create moments where the weight of caregiving and loss can be set down, even temporarily, allowing space for reflection, compassion, and hope. Autumn, with its transitional beauty, becomes a companion in this process—a reminder that change, loss, and renewal exist side by side.

For caregivers, embracing support and the grounding presence of nature does not diminish the depth of their grief. Instead, it offers a path toward resilience, mindfulness, and the quiet revelation that even in the midst of loss, life—like the turning of the seasons—continues, offering moments of connection, insight, and healing. In the moment that both my spouse and I had with staring into the trees, it calmed our brain enough to spark a creative fix to getting the utility vehicle started. Thank you, God, for helping us take those deep breaths and to nature for giving us the opportunity to go beyond ourselves.

Hope Grows offers emotional and mental health support to caregivers and those grieving a loss by way of mental health counseling, support groups, both virtual and in-person, education, and phone check ins.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director

Focus of the Month: Beyond Yourself
Essential Oil: Cedarwood
Flower: Fuchsia

Held in the Heart of Grief

Amy Oledzki on July 2, 2025

Grief, in its truest form, is not a problem to be solved or a wound to be quickly bandaged. It is a sacred unfolding, an experience of love’s deepest cost. It can feel raw and relentless—like waves crashing against the shore of our very being. And in those crashing moments, it’s easy to feel like we’re unraveling. That we are completely, utterly alone.

But grief, while deeply isolating, also carries within it a quiet truth: we are meant to be held.

Reveal

Amy Oledzki on June 4, 2025

Spring is gentle, often associated with renewal and breath. Its tenderness can be short-lived. Nature bursts forth, then hurries. Trees leaf out fully. Temperatures rise. The growing season surges ahead. We feel pressure to plant the flowers and get all of the garden beds looking just perfect, and then, alas! The rain and cooler temps present itself, offering that bit of relief again. And then the heat rises, causing the need to check in and water the tender newness of the plants.

This constant movement in the garden is all for what? At Hope Grows, we are preparing for the big reveal of the healing gardens at the Iris Respite House as we prepare for our house and garden Summer Solstice party, Uncorked and Skewered. Working around the clock, contending with the shifting climate and (dare I mention) weeds…ugh!

Emotionally, all of this can be jarring, throwing one off balance, especially if one thrives in the slower, quieter energies of winter or early spring. The speed of growth mirrors life itself, where moments of calm are quickly overtaken by the urgent, the necessary, the active.

This shift is especially potent for caregivers, gardeners, and those tending to life’s fragility. You might feel the tension between wanting to pause and needing to act. Like planting and tending to a garden, caregiving requires presence, effort, and hope. Yet the heat, pace, and expectations of the care can cause overwhelm.

Profound and tender thoughts that acknowledge the depth of caregiving while asking what a caregiver can reveal is in the truth beyond the stress, the pain, or the sorrow. Caregivers, in their quiet, daily devotion, can reveal many things. Stress, pain, or sorrow may be present, but it is not the only truth unfolding.

Love persists. Caregiving is love made visible through action. It is the hand held in silence, the blanket tucked, the medication given with tenderness. This love continues, even when words fail, even when time grows short. It is resilient, radiant, and real.

An affirmation to reveal: “I am still loving you, even now.”

There is sacredness in the ordinary. In grief, time stretches. But caregivers show how sacred the smallest things can be: the taste of a favorite soup, the sound of birds outside the window, the brushing of hair. These ordinary acts become rituals of presence.

An affirmation to reveal: “This moment matters.”

There is dignity and honor. To care is to affirm someone’s worth, even when their body or mind is changing. It’s to witness the whole person, not just their decline.

An affirmation to reveal: “You are still you. And you are still worthy.”

Inner strength exists in the midst of fragility. Caregivers often don’t feel strong, but they are. They carry what is heavy, not just physically, but emotionally, bearing witness to endings while offering comfort.

An affirmation to reveal: “I am strong enough to be with you in this.”

The presence of hope—not for a cure, but for peace. Hope does not have to mean a miracle cure. Sometimes, it means hoping for a gentle day, for laughter in between pain, or for a moment of connection. This is a quieter, deeper hope.

An affirmation to reveal: “There is still beauty here.”

A mirror of our shared humanity exists. To care for someone at the end of life is to be reminded of our own vulnerability, mortality, and tenderness. Caregivers stand at the threshold between life and death—and show us how to do so with grace.

An affirmation to reveal: “We belong to each other.”

In summary, consider the sacred slowness that will arrive when one can reveal what is in their heart. This month, consider the affirmations above and let the small gestures of the healing gardens quiet your presence. Like the flower, the intricate offerings of love are never lost. Place your hand on the earth or your heart and whisper, “Like the coriander flower, I offer quiet beauty. Like the clove, I carry strength. Even in the heat of this season, I remain rooted in love.”

Remember, we are here to support you with your journey. If you are unable to reveal the truth beyond the stress, the pain, or the sorrow, please reach out.

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director

Focus of the Month | Reveal
Flower of the Month | Coriander
Essential Oil of the Month | Clove

Delight

Amy Oledzki on May 5, 2025

Every part of the spring season can be a delightful scene dancing in front of us. The new growth is there for the taking, everywhere, watching the results of the softened earth from the melting snow and spring rains. The season beckons a positive emotional response, but when sadness or grief is present, finding the space to bloom can feel like the remaining late frost of the winter, stunting any sign of delight.

Our focus for the month is delight. Delight is defined as “a high degree of pleasure, satisfaction, or joy.” Pleasure or joy when caring for a child with a terminal illness or a medically complex condition can feel like the remaining chilly winter air rushing in from time to time. Finding any delight with this much heaviness are unwanted and unpleasant feelings that intertwine with every moment of care given. The idea of delight may feel distant, even impossible, when exhaustion, sorrow, and worry take up so much space.

While I may not know or understand your pain, I can find lessons in nature that may help. The beauty of spring can resemble grand delight, especially after the baren winter season. The flowering magnolia, the pink of the quince flowers, and the white blossoms of the cherry trees at Hope Grows feel welcoming. However, when we focus on any delight in this space of grief and sadness, it may feel a bit too grand, so we push it aside and continue with the heaviness, feeling cheated out of any delight it can bring.

Where can we nourish and savor moments of delight? At Hope Grows, we have been blessed to be a part of many caregiver stories, sometimes receiving more than we give. In addition to providing support, we engage in the message of the mission, inspiring hope through nature while empowering wellness of mind, body, and spirit. The nature part of the mission teaches about the reciprocal benefits: while nature gives, we receive. This is where true connection, not just in nature, but in our relationships with our care receivers occur. We must be open to not just the giving of care, but the receiving of it as well.

Gardening in spring is challenging. As we pay attention to the changing weather, we find a need to protect the new growth and the blossoms as best we can. We may consider covering the flowering trees as best we can when the night air may be too cold. Our instinct is to protect. I remember a few years ago covering the viburnum tree in the Garden of Hope during a cold snap. The effort and the time it took helped a little to protect the blossoms, but in the end, the decision moving forward was “not to bother again” and let nature takes its course. The message here is that we tried and we can look at our own well-being in this way. Now tending to our own self-care is a bit different than covering a small tree; however, the difficulty of finding the time, protecting, and placing value is real. Cultivating wellness of self may feel like a grand plan that defeats us before we begin, but the key here is to start small.

Spring is so special, and so are you. As the season pulls us out of the deepness of winter, we begin to find small moments of new growth finding the sun and protecting itself during fragile moments. We too can find space in the heaviness of caring for a child with a terminal illness or medically complex condition. One caregiver comes to mind, standing out as someone who looks at the cold rush of winter’s air, and instead of hindering any delight, experiences delightful moments in small ways. Noticing how her child’s eyes light up from a familiar voice, the comfort received from a shared touch, and the quiet presence of love that exists beyond words. I find the spirituality and faith of this caregiver worthy of delight. She was able to engage little by little with Hope Grows services and then eventually an overnight stay at the Iris Respite House. She found quiet space where beauty, love, and presence exist, despite the rush of chilly air in her changing climate.

In this experience, I believe the message for delight is to capture the good, not the bad. Moments of grace do not remove the sorrow, but they offer a breath within it. Try to find grace in the way your child’s hand feels in yours, in the rhythm of their breathing as they rest, in the way light filters through the window onto their face. Or it might be in the kindness of a nurse who truly sees you, in a deep inhale of fresh air when you step outside, in the way a favorite scent or texture momentarily eases the tension in your body. Another small moment is allowing yourself time to breath, leaning into support, or acknowledging the depth of what you carry.

Capturing the good does not mean pretending the bad is not there. It means allowing the small, good moments to matter—to be noticed, to be felt, even if just for a few seconds. Maybe write them down in a notebook, whisper them in gratitude before bed, or simply let yourself linger in them when they happen. Just as in nature, capture the spring blossoms in small moments of delight. While the chilly air is real, I suggest choosing to notice the beauty in front of you. As fleeting as it might be, “nature is one place we can surrender all control.”

Tending to your own well-being in this space might look different than it does for others. It is not about forcing joy but recognizing that even in sorrow, there can be moments of grace. Those moments, however small, can feel like life is whispering to you. Start with “just 10 minutes” at a time – such an honest, raw way to frame pleasant moments – because when life is this heavy, sometimes that is all you can hold, “just 10 minutes.” Grace makes room for delight—not as something forced or artificial, but as something quiet and real.

Connect in the delight of the reciprocal relationship!

Written by Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director

Breathe

Amy Oledzki on February 5, 2025

The month of February seems to lend itself to moments of deep breathing. Research shows that mindful deep breathing practices elicit balance and transform stress into peace. James Nestor, the author of “Breath” writes about the new science around the lost art of breathing. I truly find the book fascinating and worthy of the reading time. His research shows that no matter what we eat, what our body size, the exercise we accomplish, and/or our age, none of it matters if we do not breathe properly.

Inhaling and exhaling of breath is something we do instinctually about 25,000 times a day. James goes on to say in his book that humans have lost the ability to breathe correctly, partly due to the bone structure of our skull being smaller in size than our historic ancestors. In the book, I found the studies of implementing different methods of breathing intriguing, especially the studies with athletes.

The athlete studies resulted in better stamina and exertion during high performance sports when proper breathing techniques were applied. I bought a second copy of James Nestor’s book for my oldest grandson, an exceptional athlete, so that he can learn how to apply breathing techniques. He took it to heart, learned and applied it. I can always tell when he applies the breathing techniques, evidenced by his athletic performance and the color of the redness of his face.  

On another note of moments of needing deep breaths, I ended the month of January celebrating and honoring the life of two people. One at the age of 80 and the other at the age of 38. Both shocking nonetheless, both deaths took my breath away. As a licensed counselor and certified thanatologist specializing in grief and loss, I know that when the initial news of a loss is heard, one of our first responses is to try and make sense of the death, evidenced by the question, “how did the person die?” We then begin to reflect on the person’s life and what the person meant to us. In most cases, we attend a service where friends and family gather to provide a community of support and an exchange of sharing and love. With these two recent deaths, shock and confusion were the common reaction due to the nature of the death: one being from a fall and the other from suicide, respectively. Deep breaths were definitely needed as we honored and memorialized them both.

In moments of stress, we either hold our breath or shallow breathe. The transition of breathing properly resumes eventually with a big deep breath inhaled. I relate this transition of breath with winter stillness; it is in that transition of breath that we can find calm and peace, even when we’re yearning for something else.

This transition reminds me of a word I recently learned, Gluggavedur! It is an Icelandic word meaning “window-weather,” which refers to the sort of weather best observed from your window. If we think about watching a storm from the warmth and safety of inside our home, we transition from the severity of the storm to the calm feeling of being protected from it.

As grief hits us unexpectedly, like the unwanted groundhog in the garden, we can apply the practice of window-weather. This mindful way of thinking about grief as an unwanted storm puts a safe distance from it. From this safe distance, the emotion is viewed more objectively, creating a calmer and clearer mind. This helps us to observe the pain and sadness as it rises and falls, feeling protected at the same time.

So, the next time the high stakes of emotions surface, remember the phrase Gluggavedur and, since the groundhog saw its shadow and predicts six more weeks of winter, think about transitioning to “window-weather” to help with the Ying and Yang of the weather and the onset of cabin fever.

And finally, think about the relatable practice of essential oils and symbolism of flowers. Roman Chamomile, the essential oil pick, is known for its calming and soothing properties, making it an excellent companion for February’s focus. It lends itself to an invitation for “window-weather” as it invites moments for pausing, breathing, and embracing stillness. The flower pick, Boston Fern, is a lush, vibrant plant that symbolizes purity, renewal, and vitality. Even in the stillness of emotion, grief, or winter, the act of taking moments to breathe lies in its role as both a natural air purifier and a symbol of life. 

Until the winds blow in March, Happy Window-Weather!

Lisa Story, MSCP, LPC, CT
Founder & Clinical Director