You’d feel better if you screamed.

Three months after my sister died, I went to a weekend retreat in Joshua Tree. I flew across the country with nothing but a bag. My friends in LA hosted me at their home and provided me with everything I needed to spend three days outdoors. We drove for hours into the desert. Our camping spot was a little plot of land surrounded by giant boulders. The nights were terribly cold, the days were terribly hot. In my tent, I could feel the temperature of the Earth dropping as the night progressed, the chill creeping up through the ground and into my body. On the second day of the retreat, no longer up for the challenge of keeping it together, I wandered away from the group to have a good cry. I sat cross-legged on the ground and stretched my hands out in front of me. My palms laid flat on the Earth’s surface like a surrender, like a prayer. I felt the grief rise up like floodwaters in a storm. I felt it fill my body and then flow out through me, through my hands and into the Earth. I gave the grief to the ground. I gave the grief to the rocks. As I wept, I pleaded with the land. Take some of from me, please. It’s too heavy for me to carry. It’s too much for me to hold. I visualized all the heartache being gathered up inside of me like things getting swept up by a tornado. Out through my hands it went, down down down into the Earth.

In 2019, my family decided to have our annual beach vacation in Puerto Rico. It was the first time we ventured further than our local beach, and it was the first vacation my sister wasn’t here for. One day, while the kids played in the resort pool, I made my way into the ocean alone. As the waves crashed at my waist, I felt the comfort of being un-hearable. I submerged myself into the water and screamed. I screamed and screamed and screamed until I felt my voice disappear. When I came up to catch my breath, tears streamed down my face. And then I laughed out loud— a full-belly laugh with a face full of tears. A few little drops of salt water from my eyes were welcome here! I could let them pour out of me and the ocean remained unphased. My sadness was not too much to share. After a few minutes, I got out of the water and stood at the edge of the water, gazing at the ocean with gratitude. My eyes burned as I stared into the horizon, watching the waves carry my grief away.

In the fall of 2019, months before the world was changed forever,  I went to a purification retreat hosted by siblings Sah and Moun D’Simone. It was held on a gorgeous bit of land in upstate New York — a healing center in the mountains, nestled in the trees. On the second day, Sah and Moun led us into the woods for a screaming ritual. We were instructed to spread out far from eachother until we were surrounded by nothing but forest — until we couldn’t tell whose voice was whose. Sah initiated the call, and each of us responded with three deep-belly screams. The forest filled with the sound of us howling our rage into the trees. On the third scream, I felt something leave my body. I hadn’t known it was there, but I felt better when it was gone.

The screaming, I think, is what’s missing from most people’s experience of grief.

They don’t wail, they don’t weep, they don’t howl. I wonder what the world would be like if every time someone lost someone, they went into nature to feel their feelings fully. I wonder how different society would be if the norm was to let our grief go — to allow ourselves to be cry and to be cleansed by the crying.

What would it be like if we were allowed to moan until our voices disappeared? To sob until there were no more tears to cry?

I think the world would be a safer place.

My partner often comments about how patient I am. It is easy for me to be compassionate because I know that most people are carrying something inside of them that desperately needs to be released. I know that people are exhausted from trying to keep it together.

Release is a necessary part of healing. It is how I’ve been able to touch the bottom and not drown. I am still here because I let myself fall apart.

Being witnessed in my grieving process is essential, but so too is the solitude. Away from the watchful gaze of my loved ones — out of reach from any listening ears — I can let my grief be wild and untamed.

Anyone who has experienced loss knows: Heartbreak gets sewed onto the fabric of your being. It is something you carry with you always — a sleeping beast within you that could awaken at any moment, with no warning.

My prayer for you, dear reader, is that when grief rises up, you open the doors and let it out. Free it. Use your voice to let it go. Ask the Earth the support you. Give it to the water, to the ground, to the trees.

“Surrendering to your sorrow has the power to heal the deepest of wounds.” — Sobunfu Somé

When I sit with my feelings — when I give them space to emerge — I feel lighter. I feel connected to the fullness of my humanity. I feel more aware of what is important to me, what my heart is saying, what my soul craves. ⁣⁣

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Emotional pain cannot be avoided. Making the pain worse by keeping it inside is a choice.

Breathe through your feelings. Don’t judge yourself for feeling whatever you feel, don’t judge how messy it is to let it go. Give yourself permission to be wild and untamed. Curate moments where you don’t have to hold anything back. That’s where the healing is.

I love you,

– Jamila