When It Hits Home

Some moments hit a little too close.

This one did.

I’m not here to talk politics. I’m here to talk about tenderness. Grief. The kind of ache that seeps into your bones and makes you stop in your tracks.

Over the past few years, I’ve lived through my share of heartbreaking events. The fire in the Palisades was especially devastating — I grew up there from age 11 to 18. My childhood schools were reduced to ash. Landmarks filled with memories, laughter, and becoming — all gone. And then there were the tornadoes in St. Louis. My oldest daughter had just moved away, but the apartment complex she used to live in was hit hard. Windows shattered, roofs torn off. Friends of ours are still cleaning up and rebuilding from that fierce mile-wide, 13-mile-long storm.

These stories are just a few. And they’re just here in the U.S.

Pain is swirling all around the world.

But this recent attack in Boulder… this one broke something open in me.

It wasn’t wind, or fire, or snow.

It was human.

Fueled by anger and fractured understanding.

Eight people injured — ages 52 to 88.

Eighty-eight.

I can’t stop thinking about it. How those elders were never a threat.

How senseless it all is.

In yoga this morning, my teacher gently reminded us not to fall into the trap of Good Guy / Bad Guy. And yet that’s what got us here. The inability to see the shared humanity in one another. The unwillingness to hold complexity. I felt the weight in the room, in our town. Boulder is grieving again — not long after the King Soopers shooting in 2021, a place I still shop regularly.

So what do we do when it feels like too much?

We feel it… 

We don’t look away. 

And we walk gently forward.

Yesterday, I took my sorrow to the garden. I dug in the dirt with a little more force than usual. I pulled weeds like I meant it. My body needed to release the anger, the ache, the helplessness. And the Earth — in all her wisdom — took it without flinching. This is what I love about nature. She can hold it all. And in doing so, she holds us too.

Yes, it hurts.

Yes, we may be growing numb.

But please, don’t push it down.

Let yourself cry.

Let the rain come.

Let the wind carry it away.

Because if we don’t let our emotions move through us, they’ll stay stuck. And stuck energy turns into resentment, tension, even illness. It will come out — at your partner, your colleague, a stranger on the road — if we don’t let it flow through.

(This is the fairy house I tucked into the garden this weekend, in the middle of pulling weeds with wild fury — a mix of grief, rage, and reverence in my hands. It once belonged to my dad, an artist and painter, and placing it there felt like a small act of beauty in the chaos. A reminder that even as we rage and ache, we can still plant magic. We can still make space for wonder. We can still create tiny homes for hope.)

This week’s message is more personal than usual, but it’s also deeply tied to leadership. The same tools we need to process grief are the ones we need in the workplace. Stress. Conflict. Disappointment. All of it lives in our bodies. If we want to lead with clarity, we have to clear the space inside ourselves.

Here’s what helps me regulate when things feel heavy:

• Limit the news. Let in only what you can metabolize.

• Take space for yourself — even five minutes in the car, eyes on the sky.

• Practice gratitude. This life is fragile. Let’s not forget that.

• Breathe. Deeply.

• Be kind to yourself.

• And please remember — we are all doing the best we can.

I am here and would love to hear where you are feeling tenderness. Only together can we reach our peak.

Sending even more love this week.