Marguerite-Blooming Lotus

There was a time in my life when everything seemed to unravel at once.

Loss came first.
Nine people in seven months.
Including my father.

Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. It comes in waves, in moments you don’t expect, in places you thought were safe. And while all of that was happening inside of me, my outer world began to shift too.

I reached out for support at work, thinking that was what you were supposed to do. At first, it felt like I would be held. The support I received initially was everything I could have asked for.

And then something changed.

What began as support turned into something else entirely. Over the next four years, I found myself in an environment where I was targeted, worn down, and unsure of where I stood. At times, it was public. It was confusing. It was exhausting.

Around that same time, I was trying to find a way out. I interviewed for another position in a different district. They told me I was perfect. I felt it too. It felt aligned.

Two hours later, the offer was rescinded.

Because of a reference.

I remember that moment so clearly. It was the first day back after summer break. I never checked my email at home, but for some reason that morning, I did.

And there it was.

“We’ve rescinded the offer.”

I screamed at the top of my lungs. I was running through my condo, yelling in devastation.

What could you have possibly said about me? About my character? How does it go from perfect to nothing?

It felt like the ground beneath me wasn’t steady anywhere.

That was the space I was in when Shalom entered my life.

I didn’t find it on my own. My therapist, Kristen, was the one who connected me. At that point, I wasn’t looking for something like Shalom. I was trying to recreate myself, but I didn’t yet know what that meant or how to do it.

I just knew something had to change.

When I first went to Shalom in 2018, I didn’t arrive open and ready.

I arrived guarded and nervous. I was greeted by a Shalom staff member who brightly took my hand and showed me around. It felt good, welcoming, yet foreign.

The first retreat was hard. There’s no other way to say it.

The structure, the co-ed environment, the intensity of the processes, it all felt overwhelming. My body didn’t feel safe in certain moments. Some of the breathing exercises were triggering. Hearing other people’s processes, especially the men’s, was really difficult for me.

I remember thinking, I don’t know if I can do this.

I even remember wondering what Kristen had sent me into.

At one point I said out loud, this feels traumatic for me.

And yet, I stayed.

Not because it was easy, but because something in me knew there was something here I needed, even if I didn’t fully understand it yet.

At first, I thought I had to do everything exactly as it was being shown. The breathing, the mat work, the structure. And it didn’t work for me.

But then I saw someone do it differently.

And something shifted.

I realized I could find my own way.

When it came time for my process, I didn’t even use the mat.

I stayed on the floor. Moving. Pacing.

Recreating.

I went back into that moment when the job was taken away: the shock, the anger, the disbelief. I was pacing back and forth, screaming, saying the things I never got to say.

What did you say about me? How did it go from perfect to this?

It wasn’t quiet.
It wasn’t graceful.
It was raw.

I used a bat on the hanging bag. At one point, a rope was placed around me, lightly, but enough to mirror what I was feeling inside.

Tight. Trapped.

And then slowly, I began to release it.

Something shifted.

And what surprised me most wasn’t just the release. It was what came after.

People met me there.

There were a few men in the group who connected with my story, who saw me in it. That mattered more than I expected. Because for much of my life, I didn’t feel safe being seen, especially in that way.

And toward the end of the retreat, there was a moment I still carry with me.

The group said, as you go back into your life, you take us with you.

And I did.

I actually did.

There were moments I went back into that work environment, and I would remember, they’re here. I wasn’t alone.

And over time, I began to understand that more deeply. It wasn’t just about remembering people. It was about carrying something with me. The work didn’t stay in that room. It moved with me into my life.

Generations of people have done this work in that space, in that room. And somehow, that energy doesn’t just stay there. We bring it with us. Into our relationships, into our work, into the way we show up in the world.

Shalom didn’t feel comfortable to me at first.

But it became impactful.

Over time, something began to soften.

I stayed connected after that first retreat. I attended women’s groups. I reached out when I needed support. And little by little, I started to feel something I didn’t realize I had been missing.

Safety.

Not just emotional safety, but physical safety too.

I didn’t grow up with that.

Touch wasn’t nurturing in my world growing up. It was something harmful. So even something as simple as sitting close to someone, holding a hand, receiving a hug, those things have been a lifelong journey for me.

And Shalom softened that.

It’s still evolving, but it opened something that wasn’t accessible before.

At Shalom, I also began to experience what it was like to be in my body without bracing.

I remember one moment in a group with Nance and Sandy where something very simple but very profound happened. Sandy pointed out how tightly wound I was physically. I didn’t even realize it. That tension had been my normal.

And as I began to let go, even just a little, I felt something underneath it.

My life force.

That’s the word that comes closest.

I felt awakened.

And even now, that doesn’t feel finished. I find myself continuing to look at how I can be more connected to myself and more connected to others. That’s something Shalom opened in me, and something I continue to live into.

That awakening didn’t stay at Shalom.

It came back with me into my life.

I stand a little taller now.

There’s more awareness in how I show up, how I connect with people. I used to hear that I was nice, sweet, but there was a distance.

That’s changed.

There’s more access now. More connection.

And there’s also this deep sense that I’m not alone, that there is always a community with me and within me. I know I can reach out, and someone will be there.

I’ve done that.

And someone always shows up.

It also changed the direction of my work.

I had been working in school counseling, but something in me knew that wasn’t where I was meant to stay. I didn’t want to go back to traditional talk therapy. It didn’t feel effective anymore.

So I started over.

I found trauma-sensitive yoga. I trained in Somatic Experiencing. I built a private practice, something I never thought I would do, especially with the self-esteem I had at the time.

But I did it.

I recreated myself.

Now I work with adults, helping them reconnect with their bodies, their experiences, their own inner awareness, especially those who, like me, have had complicated relationships with safety, with touch, with being seen.

There was a time when I thought losing that job opportunity was one of the worst things that could have happened.

Now I see it differently.

I feel enriched by where I am.
Grateful, even.

Not because the path was easy, but because it led me somewhere I wouldn’t have found otherwise.

Shalom, for me, has been a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.

Not something I was looking for.
Not something I understood right away.

But something that met me exactly where I was.

A place where I could begin again, not by becoming someone new, but by reconnecting with parts of myself that had been waiting, quietly, underneath it all.