Brutally Beautiful: A New Chapter
moving to substack-hope you follow!
Exciting News: A New Chapter for Brutally Beautiful
After a year of stepping back, grieving, and reflecting on what my 47 years have taught me, I'm redefining professional success ( yes, again, it's an ongoing process) and genuinely exploring what professionally brings me joy: writing, nature, and retreats. My recent time off the grid in the Teton Wilderness made things clear: Brutally Beautiful (BB) is evolving. Beginning in January 2025, BB will move to Substack, where I'll be sharing my memoir through poems, letters, and stories that chronicle a brutally beautiful life. 'Brutiful, a term I use, is a combination of 'brutal' and 'beautiful, 'representing the paradox of life's challenges and its inherent beauty. Each month, a new chapter of Brutiful will unfold, interwoven with poems; I will also include meditations, zen nature moments, and somatic tools for healing in my monthly posts. Learn more. I'd be honored if you joined the journey—either the free subscription or the paid one. It's $6 a month, less than the price of a latte. I would be honored to have you on this journey!
During our annual Fall retreat in Maine with the Adaptive Outdoor Education Center (AOEC), a community I'm honored to work with who exemplifies compassion and mission- I was reminded of why I do this work and what it means to help others find their way back to themselves. This isn't about advice or telling caregivers what to do; it's about creating a space for healing and self-discovery. When caregivers are given a space to simply be free of judgment and equipped with tools to reclaim their voice and choice, healing unfolds in powerful and deeply personal ways.
One of the most common things I hear is, "I had no idea how much I needed to unpack." Awareness is the first step, and witnessing that awareness bloom in these remarkable souls is something I'll never take for granted.
This year, I'm returning to the heart of what sparked my journey—retreats for caregivers and women. This is my zone, my jam. At BB, we approach caregiving differently, and it works. I've witnessed profound and lasting transformations when caregivers and women are given space to reconnect with themselves, using nature for healing and grounding. This isn't about caregiving talk; it's about reclaiming their lives. The unfolding growth and rediscovery are profound; they are lasting, empowering caregivers and women in ways they never thought possible.
To keep creating these experiences, I'm stripping away the noise and distractions, focusing instead on those ready to dive into their healing. Over the past decade, I've seen the caregiving space shift—now, more attention is on the caregiver, not just the one they care for. This shift, long overdue, is something I've fought for, and I'm thrilled to be part of it.
As always, I'm committed to sharing my story—in person or through the written word. Stories connect us; they shape us, and we need more connection to nature, each other, and ourselves. I feel so fortunate to do this work and witness its beauty and rawness daily.
Here's to the journey ahead—I hope you'll be an integral part of it! Your participation is not just welcomed; it's crucial to the success of this journey. I look forward to sharing this transformative experience with you.
Dear Grief,
You've settled into the corners of my life, quiet as dusk. You claim spaces I thought were mine alone, rooting deeply, uninvited. And though I've often wanted to push you away, I've learned to let you stay. I had time to sit and ponder about you, my oldest unwelcomed companion. All the ways you have been in my life.
Long before I recognized your face, you came uninvited and sat beside me after my father’s stroke, which led to the unraveling of the family. So young, the loss of youth and innocence with no manual from you or anyone. I wonder what you saw in me when you first came into my life. Did you make your plan then and there?
You came quietly, too—in the ache for lost friends, the grandparents I naively thought would never leave, the brother and innocence of youth both long gone, and the brother whose demons took him long ago. All we lose along the way. You settle like dust in empty rooms, each particle holding the weight of things once solid. What do you get out of all this?
And then there's the slow erosion of the self I once knew—the self I wore like a favorite puffy vest patched with duct tape, weathered and familiar. Before Ehlers-Danlos, I moved through life with ease, unthinking, unburdened. But now, that self is out to sea, swallowed by a tide I never saw coming. Some pieces linger, tethered to a version of me that no longer exists. Others wash ashore unexpectedly, worn and strange, like messages in bottles from a life I can barely recognize.
The losses seem small until you hold them up to the light. The freedom of easy movement, of grabbing a bag and going wherever I pleased, is now replaced by the ritual of packing—a duffel filled with the tools that keep me whole. The simplicity of an unscanned morning is gone; now, my family and I count my spoons, weigh my pain, and carefully map out every step. Even food, once a source of pure joy, has become a stranger—meals I once devoured now betray me, pleasures ripped away one by one.
So many fragments of the life I built have been swept away, scattered into the deep. Yet other pieces drift back, pulled by invisible tides. Do you, Grief, have a map for this chaos you bring? Or do you wake each day and decide, "Today, I will wreak havoc on this body, this life, this spirit?" Or was it to prepare me for the losses yet to come?
Connor’s accident was a random moment that shattered everything we knew. His world changed instantly, and ours had to rebuild around the wreckage, forcing us to shift the very language of how we connect, speak, and exist. But the grief that came with Connor’s injury was different. It was a new kind of heartbreak that sank deeper than I ever imagined. This grief—the grief of watching my child lose everything that came with living paralyzed—was unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn’t just the loss of what was but of what could have been. The future I had dreamed for him, for us.
Grief, I have to ask—what the hell is the purpose of this lesson? Why do you insist on teaching us through such profound loss in ways we can barely comprehend? Was there no other way to get the point across? Did you grow lonely in endless rounds or get greedy for more?
When my father passed by his hand in 2020, he tore a seam in my world I didn't even know was there. It was sudden, a sharp, blunt force that shattered something in me before I even had the chance to brace myself. His absence left jagged fragments—the hollow ache of apologies never spoken, questions that echo without answers. His departure carved out spaces in me that memory and understanding could never fill. He left an anchor in my chest, heavy and unmoving, a weight I carried alone or did until I let you walk beside me.
Grief, you and I have a quiet, unspoken understanding—a secret language we share regarding her. It’s a silent exchange only those who have danced with loss can recognize: a knowing glance, a nod that needs no words. You were always there, filling the spaces words couldn’t reach, lingering in the moments when I could only sigh and let you fill the air between us. We had our code, one forged from the sorrow of loving someone who was never truly there to love us back. The hurt was relentless, sharp, like a splinter too deep to remove, an irritant that quietly and steadily infected everything.Â
You were with me long before her mind faded, etched into my bones from the years spent carrying the weight of who she never was. Piece by piece, she unraveled, and I found myself unwillingly drawn into the orbit of her decline, caring and grieving for a mother I had already mourned—the mother I longed for but never knew. And yet, a new grief emerged, fresh and unexpected, bringing me to my knees. There was no clear line between love and resentment, only a tangled knot of bitter memories and unmet wishes that clung to me like cobwebs, impossible to shake off. Watching her vanish felt like standing beside a dried-up well, cracked earth where something vital had withered long ago. And yet, at that barren end, I found strange peace—not in reconciliation or happy endings, but in quiet acceptance of what was and what would never be. She stayed closed, her untouchable story, a book I could finally set down, knowing it no longer held power over me. What a savage way to teach me acceptance, to force me into the art of letting go. I hated you for this lesson, this way. Do you hate me, Grief? Is that why you share the gift of loss so freely with me?
Oh, to dissect you. To pull apart your motives, lay bare the machinery of your cruelty and wisdom. You are as vast and elusive as the sea itself. And so, I stand on these shifting shores, gathering what drifts in, letting the rest float away, and learning how to rebuild. I've come to accept you, Grief, as a part of life, a teacher of profound lessons, and a force that shapes and reshapes us in ways we can barely comprehend.
Oh, how this life with you has worn me thin, stretched me to threads. There are too many losses, too vast for a single letter or lifetime. I feel myself unraveling at the edges, my fabric pulled taut, thinning with every strain.
So, this summer, I left.
I rode into the Teton Wilderness and let it all fall away—the static, the noise, the endless grind of trying to hold it together. Out there, where the willows bow low, and the mountains stand like quiet sentinels, nature began her silent lessons. No sermons, no commands—just the steady rhythm of life doing what it does best.
I slipped into the cold embrace of the Yellowstone River, her waters biting and cleansing in equal measure. The wolves sang ancient songs, marking their dominion under a bruised sky. I watched the moon hang heavy, like an old friend, patient and unflinching as I laid my burdens bare. And in that stark vulnerability, the wilderness held me.
Decay was everywhere, yet so was life. The fallen deer, its body now a banquet for ants and flies. The willow branches bent low, cradling the beavers' work. Even the grizzlies, lumbering shadows, shared the harvest—relishing their take and leaving behind a feast for scavengers. Nothing hoarded, nothing wasted. In nature, letting go is not loss but renewal.
And I, too, began to loosen. Grief, you were there, steady and unyielding, as constant as the stars. But in the stillness, I saw how even you have a role to play. In letting you sit beside me, unjudged and unchained, something else stirred—something soft like moss growing over an old wound.
By the time I emerged from the wilderness, I wasn't whole, but I wasn't splintered either. Nature had taught me her quiet art: to let go not in despair but in trust, to see the beauty in unraveling, in being taken apart so something new can grow.
So, here we are, a quiet understanding between you and me. You've left your marks and reshaped me in ways I never sought. You live in the marks of my marrow, settled deep like the mountains, steadfast and undeniable. Yet somehow, you've brought me nearer to what's real. Now, I walk with you—not in resistance or surrender, but acceptance. In those places where answers vanish, I am learning to breathe, to keep moving.
There's an odd grace in letting you stay. I no longer wish you were gone. You press against the boundaries of my being, bending me in ways I hadn't known I could bear—and somewhere in that tension, I find ground—not perfect, but steady enough. Amidst the weight, I breathe, I learn, and I continue.
Grief, You are my oldest, most unwelcome companion. And yet, despite the havoc you've wreaked, you've shaped me more than anyone else. You've hollowed me out, but I've planted seeds in those hollows. They've grown wild and unruly, tangled with memories and watered by tears. In this chaos, I've found my rhythm, a balance between the joy that keeps me afloat and the sorrow that keeps me grounded.
I am more than the weight I carry. You may be a part of my story, but do not own it. For that, Grief—for this brutiful balance—I find myself strangely grateful.
Brutifully Yours,
HZ
Poem of the Week
Shapeshifting Companion You're here again,  unbidden, lingering like a song I know too well—  Joni Mitchell's Blue murmuring low on the radio,  a melody sinking into my bones,  as if it was meant to find me right here.  I ask for one clean breath,  a second alone—  but you settle in more profound,  filling the room thick,  warping light before it lands. There's the faint scent of roses—  not fresh but fading,  petals bruised and crumbling at the edges,  holding on to what's left.  You bury yourself in my chest,  split open the soft places,  leave marks I never wanted,  lessons etched into me  that I can't scrub clean. You twist everything,  turn pain metallic,  confusion thick as fog rolling over fields,  and in some strange grace,  there are flashes, brutal and bright,  where light leaks through the spaces torn.  It feels wrong, this joy in the middle of ruin—  sharp, out of place,  like laughing at the funeral of something I loved. There's no ease here,  only the crooked path you push me down,  each step heavier than the last.  And still, in the wreckage,  I stumble on strange, quiet things—  small fragments of love, forgotten trinkets in corners of the closet, solid, unbreakable,  as if they'd been waiting here all along. Sorrow winds itself tight,  presses in,  makes each breath shallow.  But beneath its grip,  a pulse—slow and old,  an ancient rhythm,  mine.  Maybe yours, too. There's no beauty here,  only the bare, open wreckage you leave,  yet sifting through,  I find parts of myself,  scarred, softened, still whole. Somehow,  love clings to the ruin,  stitched through the mess,  binding me together,  a thread of rhythm  steady in a tilting world. You won't entirely leave,  but one day,  your grip will ease,  and in the quiet you leave behind,  hope might stretch awake,  worn, waiting,  and so will I.
Nature Zen Video
take a minute and breathe.
video credit: heather zoccali