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Week 164: Living from the inside out




Finding peace in chaos, comfort in cloth, and connection beyond words.


Some days, grief brings vivid visions and a sense of connection that feels otherworldly. Other days, I struggle just to sit still. This post is about both.


I’ve been trying to live from the inside out lately—choosing presence over panic, tuning inward when the world feels too loud. It doesn’t always go the way I expect, but I’m learning to stay with whatever shows up. Even if it’s just breath. Even if it’s just a nightgown.


Here’s what that looked like this week.


I meditated recently, and it was beautiful.


I could feel the energy in my hands immediately. I closed my eyes and saw a blue sky, pink clouds, and a sense of new dawn rising within me. Then, in my mind’s eye, rainbow waves began to ripple—gentle, radiant, alive.


I felt like I was lifted—plucked out of worldly woes—and placed on a soft, distant cloud. Everything was quiet, peaceful.


And then they came.


My daughter and my dad. My daughter and I were wrestling—like we used to—and I pulled her in for a hug. As always, my eyes started dripping tears, which is how she comes to me. A blend of joy and grief, light and ache.


My dad was there too, watching with that familiar, indulgent smile.


The vision turned into a slow, swirling rainbow vortex—vast, beautiful, alive with something I can only call healing. Later, I pulled a healing card, and it showed rainbow waves—maybe it wasn’t a coincidence. Maybe it really was healing.


Lately, the world has felt chaotic. Listening to the news feels like an attack on my nervous system—every headline like a jolt, a tremor. I was reminded recently of something I’ve heard many times before: Live from the inside out.


But this time, it landed differently. It wasn’t just a nice idea—it felt like a conviction. A knowing.


It’s not optional for me anymore.


So this week, I’ve started practicing it. Letting my center guide me. Returning to stillness before reacting. Feeling into the unseen before absorbing the noise of the world.


And maybe that’s why the meditation felt so powerful. Maybe that’s what opened the door.


Feeling their energy was amazing, wonderful, soul-deep. But I still miss their physicality—the sound of their laughter, the warmth of their arms, the simple miracle of touch.


But it’s not always like that.


Today, I couldn’t settle. My mind kept spinning, my body felt restless. This is usually where I give up.


But today I didn’t.


I stayed. I focused on my breath. I listened—to the wind in the trees, the birdsong, the small rhythms of nature around me. I let that be enough.


No visions. No swirling colors. Just presence. And maybe that’s its own kind of healing, too.


After the “disappointing” meditation, I pulled on my Lily hug PJs.


It’s a nightdress I bought for Lil a few years ago—warm, soft flannel to keep her cozy through the night. I wear it now when I need her warmth.


It’s worn thin in places, but it holds her.


And in some way, it holds me too.


Joy and grief, coexisting. Light and ache. Love and longing, side by side.


I’ll keep choosing to live from the inside out. Because that’s where they meet me.


Maybe we all have our own version of the Lily hug PJs—the small, tender ways we let love stay close.




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