In Buddhist psychology, suffering is not a flaw but a teacher. The mind’s instinct is to push discomfort away, to exile what feels too much. Yet the practice is to stay, to breathe, to bow to what arises. In somatic work, we recognize that these “dark” emotions are not abstract—they live in the body. The clench of a jaw. The tightening in the chest. The collapse of shoulders. The trembling in the belly. Each sensation is a language, a story carried not in words but in tissues, nerves, breath.

True intimacy is not the absence of shadow, but the willingness to reveal it, gently, at a pace that feels safe. When our hidden parts are met with care—whether in therapy, in friendship, or in love—they begin to trust. They peek out from behind the armor. They risk being seen. And in that seeing, healing begins.

We are taught to believe that healing means erasing pain, smoothing over the rough edges, silencing the difficult stories. But what if the wound is not only something to mend, but also something that opens us? What if our grief, our longing, our fractures are also portals into beauty, connection, and presence?

Grief has a way of rearranging us. It pulls the ground out from beneath our feet, leaving us searching for where we belong. A loved one dies, a relationship ends, a dream fades, a season of life closes—and suddenly, the familiar home inside us feels altered.