This is not a polished story.
This is a love letter from the wreckage.

Grief didn’t kill me.
It seduced me.
It stripped me bare, dragged me into the dark, and whispered truths I couldn’t ignore.
When I lost my son, Joseph, I shattered. Not just into sadness—but into sacred chaos.
Into the ashes of everything I was told I had to be.

Since then, I’ve grieved a thousand deaths.
Of identities.
Of safety.
Of love that wasn’t safe.
Of the pieces of me I left behind to survive people and spaces that could never hold me.

I’ve sat with betrayal. With numbness. With sacred rage that trembled under my skin.
And I’ve learned this:

Grief isn’t just mourning.
It’s remembering who the f*ck you are.
It’s reconnecting with your body.
It’s reclaiming the parts they said were too much:

your voice, your softness, your fire, your sex, your dreams.

I became a grief coach not because I healed perfectly.
But because I finally stopped pretending I had to.

This isn’t just healing work.
It’s aliveness work.
Grief deserves laughter.
Grief deserves orgasms.
Grief deserves room to scream, to breathe, to feel.

What makes me different?

I won’t give you a path.
I’ll give you a mirror.
I won’t tell you to be okay.
I’ll tell you to be real.
Messy. Sacred. Unapologetically alive.

You don’t have to rise above your grief.
You just have to say yes.
To your body.
To your voice.
To the life that still wants you.

With all my fire and love,
Liv