Breathing Through Loss: How I’m Navigating Grief After My Father’s Passing

On July 8, 2025, I was celebrating one of the proudest moments of my professional life—earning 3rd place in the Delta Red Tank. I was on a high, my heart full, my vision for the future expanding.

Five days later, on July 13, I got the call no one ever wants to receive: my father had passed away.

The joy I’d been floating in was replaced by what felt like a gut punch straight to my soul. In a matter of days, I went from celebration to heartbreak, from planning my next big moves to trying to remember how to breathe.

It’s been two months since my last blog post. These weeks have been a slow, tender journey of returning to center—learning how to hold my grief in one hand and my dreams in the other.

The Breath Became My Anchor

In the blur of funeral arrangements, well-meaning condolences, and waves of emotion, I kept coming back to one thing: my breath.
Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. Breathwork wasn’t a self-care practice anymore—it was survival.

Each inhale became an act of receiving life, even in the middle of loss.
Each exhale became a surrender, a way to let go of what I couldn’t control.

Sometimes I would sit in silence, close my eyes, and breathe into the ache—feeling it move, shift, and soften. Other times, the breath was the only thing that reminded me I was still here, still connected to something greater than my grief.

Breathwork Didn’t “Fix” My Grief—It Held It

There’s no quick path through mourning. Breathwork didn’t erase my pain, and it didn’t bring my father back. But it did give me the space to feel my emotions without being consumed by them.
When the memories felt too big, I breathed.
When the tears came out of nowhere, I breathed.
When I felt joy and guilt for feeling joy, I breathed.

In those moments, I realized my breath could hold my grief without drowning in it.

Honoring Him in Every Inhale

Breathwork has become part of how I keep my father close. With each intentional breath, I remember the lessons he taught me—about resilience, kindness, and living fully. My breath is my quiet way of saying, I’m still here, Dad. I’m still moving forward.

Grief will continue to ebb and flow. But I know now that I have a steady, reliable anchor in my breath. And when the weight feels heavy again, I’ll return to it—one inhale, one exhale, one heartbeat at a time.