Three years ago, I was living in Raleigh, North Carolina, when my husband and I made the mutual decision to separate after 17 years of marriage. We agreed I’d move to Asheville for six months before selling our family home and relocating back to the mountains where we had met in 2000 and built a beloved community. The plan was to buy two houses so our daughter could move freely between our homes. Those six months alone traveling back and forth to see Riley and Eric were among the hardest of my life. Even surrounded by old friends and the familiar beauty of Asheville, the grief was constant and raw. I was mourning the end of a version of our family while preparing to create something new. During that tender time, I discovered a small cemetery perched on a hill with sweeping views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I walked there almost every day. There was one tree I always visited—sometimes I hugged it, sometimes I leaned against it, and other times I just wept with my head resting on its bark. That place became a sanctuary for my sorrow, my reflection, and ultimately, my healing. Today, three years later, I’m walking in a different cemetery—in a tiny Vermont town where my boyfriend lives and where I’m spending a few weeks this summer. My life looks very different now. I’m happier. I’m more at peace. I’m in love. I feel hopeful about the future. And yet—I still love cemeteries. 
Like that little spot in Asheville, this quiet Vermont graveyard offers a sense of perspective and tranquility that grounds me. It reminds me that none of us get out of here alive. So, while we’re here, we might as well live with intention, courage, and heart. As I walk past tombstones from the 1700s and 1800s, I find myself wondering:
- Who were these people?
- What did they dream of?
- Who and what did they love?
- How did they live, work, and create?
- How did they navigate grief and loneliness?
- What marked their days? What gave them joy?
Cemeteries ask big questions in very quiet ways. They hold lives, legacies, and lessons in stone. If I’m lucky, maybe I have 40 more years on this Earth. Two years ago, I was in a car accident that almost took me out. But it wasn’t my time. I’m still here. And why?
- To raise my daughter
- To love deeply
- To teach what I came here to teach
- To share my gifts as a coach and speaker and author
- To feel it all—the joy and the pain
- To follow my soul’s calling
- To simply be
- To know that I am
- And to remember I’m part of something much greater than myself
And you? Why are you still here? I invite you to visit a local cemetery sometime soon. Walk the grounds. Breathe deeply. Reflect. Listen. What stirred in you? What questions or insights emerged? How did it shift your sense of who you are and why you’re here? In these uncertain days, grounding ourselves is not just helpful—it’s essential. Let’s root ourselves now… before we’re six feet under.
Let’s keep this conversation going.
I’d love to know what came up for you as you read. Have you ever found peace or perspective in a cemetery—or another unexpected place? Leave a comment below. I’m listening—and I’d be honored to witness your story. AND, for a good laugh, if you want to read about how I lost my parents in their cemetery, here’s my most BIZARRE cemetery experience ever! Read this.