Drowning in my skin.

Grief is deep water. I find my way back to sunlight.

I’m barefoot and wearing a showy swimsuit, stepping carefully into the murky lake water. At first, only my feet are wet as I walk along the shoreline looking for tadpoles.

In the distance, I see older children standing in the water and playing with a ball.

While I have the impression that the lake is shallow, I cautiously acclimate to the water, staying near the reeds and plants at the edge.

As I gain confidence, I gradually descend into the water. Each step feels empowering. I’m no longer the small child who nearly drowned in a pool at a church function.

I feel the warm sunlight on my arms and shoulders.

I remember my mother’s instruction to stay near the big kids so they can look after me. The big kids are still far into the lake. I don’t think they’ve noticed me. I make my way toward them.

And then it happens, the step into nothingness. Disorienting, deep nothingness. I kick my feet and swing my arms. The water feels colder.

No air.

Not sure of my age in the lake story. This picture is close enough.

Do the big kids see me drowning? I’m thrashing as hard as I can.

I open my eyes to dark, cloudy water. My chest is tight with fear. My lungs panic. This can’t wait. I am small and need help. Am I splashing?

No air. No air.

I touch something that feels like soil. Am I at the bottom of the lake? I’ve lost all sense of direction.

My hands claw at the soil as I move like a frantic crayfish. I reach mud. I lift my head into the air.

I gasp. My need for air is terrifying and humiliating. The gasps make choking noises that transition into heaving sobs. Sobbing is better: I have experience in controlling the sounds of sobbing.

I rest on the shore and quiet my breathing. I look around. The big kids continue their play, noticing nothing. I clean away the mud from my body. My eyes feel scratchy. I blink away the tears, then I stand and walk away.

—

This childhood memory replayed for days until my mind made sense of the meaning:

• Grief feels like a sudden drop into deep, cold water.

• Grief is disorienting and brings murky darkness and shock.

• Grief extracts all air.

• And, it’s time to act. To find the ground. To crawl into the light.

—

On March 20, 2026 — the spring equinox — our beloved Cuddle Biscuit passed away quietly after having her absolute best day.¹

Cuddle Biscuit & Lori … one of my absolute favorite pictures of us.

These two weeks have felt like drowning. Drowning in the air. Drowning in my skin. Just dry and drowning.

In grief, drowning has a simple purity. Sobbing and gasping for air is primitive and familiar. Recognizable. Individual. I allowed the bleak emptiness to take over. Sunlight felt wrong, somehow.

Soothing, cold pints of ice cream give temporary relief to the emptiness. Tangy salt & vinegar potato chips dull the pain. Carbs bring escape and sleep. I awaken feeling sluggish and puffy. Inside my skin, all of this makes sense. It’s dark in here and the extra weight keeps me at the bottom. My mind lacks sharpness. Mental clarity isn’t needed down here. I dull my mind further, eating the whole bag and wanting more.

—

Acceptance. Impermanence. Gratitude. These words provided solace. They cushioned the pain of drowning.

Gardening? Writing? My rituals seemed self-serving. I put them off. Until now.

—

The full body memory of drowning shook me into a sluggish readiness. Like song lyrics, I imagine this memory playing on repeat in my my mind was a nudge from my guardian angel who nourishes and guides my path.

Yesterday I stepped into the sunlight and put my hands in the soil. The asparagus bed needed spring cleanup and weeding. As I gently pulled away the fluffy layer of leaves that had cushioned the plants from the winter cold and snow, I found asparagus buds emerging from the soil and reaching through the leaves to find the light.

Lori’s garden,.April 2026.

All of this hurts. Stepping into the sunlight doesn’t release me from grieving. Instead, the sun is softening my body and slowing my breathing. The underlying fight-or-flight response (so foundational that I had not realized it was there) fades as I breathe, pull weeds, and prepare the soil for planting and nourishing new life. I give myself permission to live while grieving.

I am grateful.

1. Too painful to share more than this. I miss her deeply.