our story

The vision for The Grief Room was born from a deeply personal journey—one that began in the raw, tender postpartum days after the birth of my first child. In that season, I found myself in the depths of immense grief, though at the time, I didn’t yet have the language to name it as such. Grief had always felt like something external—something tied to death or loss in the traditional sense. But what I came to understand, through my body more than my mind, was that grief is woven into every layer of our being. It shows up in the spaces between who we were and who we are becoming.

In those early postpartum months, I was navigating profound anxiety and depression, a continuous purging of all I had carried, and an unraveling that felt both terrifying and necessary. Each night, I woke to an insistent message—not from any external source, but from somewhere deep within: Get on the mat. Get on the mat. It wasn’t about yoga or movement in the way I had once known. It was a call to meet myself. To feel. To listen. To let go.

The mat became my container—a sacred, steady space where my grief could land. A place where I could cry, rage, question, surrender. Where my body could begin to trust that it was safe to feel, safe to soften, safe to heal. In time, this practice shaped my understanding of grief as something that needed holding, not fixing. It needed space—not to consume me, but to be witnessed, honored, and integrated.

But my grief did not begin in postpartum. I was born into a lineage of unprocessed breath, of anger and resentment, of chronic illnesses that held the stories of what had not been expressed. I have been on a slow, unfolding journey—one that is both conscious and unconscious—of stepping into those spaces, of feeling what was left untouched, of allowing myself to face the rage, the shame, the sorrow that was buried so deeply it had no name. Some days, I move toward it with courage. Other days, I want nothing to do with it. Some days, I resist, avoid, push it all away. And still, I am reminded—when I step foot into The Grief Room—that it is safe. That there is permission.

Permission to be all things. To be fully human. To be imperfect. To not know. To be in the in-between, the gray space, the becoming. The Grief Room is a container of deep permission—to arrive exactly as you are, in whatever moment you find yourself in.

Years later, after the birth of my second child, I found myself standing in front of an empty space, one that the landlords had no plans for. And in another moment of late-night clarity, the vision arrived fully formed: We need spaces like this. We need physical spaces that hold grief the way the mat once held me.

The Grief Room is that space. A third place—outside of home, outside of therapy—where grief can simply exist. A place where we can touch the edges of our sorrow, step into the depths when we are ready, and just be with whatever is unfolding. Grief is not something to be rushed. It does not follow a timeline. It is an ancient thread, woven through our ancestors and carried forward in our bodies. For many of us, it is only now being named and felt in ways our lineage never had the space for.

Imagine walking into a space that already understands. A space that does not need you to explain or justify your grief, but instead welcomes it. Welcomes you. Questions are welcome here. Silence is welcome here. There is no expectation—only the invitation to be held.

This space also honors the intergenerational experience of grief. It holds room for the child self within us—the one who may have never had a place to express sorrow—and for the children of today, who often carry a wisdom about grief that adults have long forgotten. This is not a religious space, nor is it bound to any singular spiritual path, but it is sacred. It is a symbol of the mat—a container for unfolding, for healing, for returning to yourself.

The Grief Room exists because grief needs space. And because you deserve to be held in it.