After Loss Comes Light: Lessons I’m Carrying Into 2026
2025 was an incredibly challenging year for many people I know, myself included. Several close friends experienced profound losses, and although I did my best to support them from afar—living in a different country—I carried their pain with me. At times, I even felt a quiet sense of gratitude that the losses weren’t happening directly to me, because I was already navigating a difficult year in other ways. I was learning how to ride waves of chaos, staying focused on my own well-being just to keep going.
So much unfolded throughout the year that demanded my attention, resilience, and commitment to staying as healthy as possible—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
By the end of 2025, as I prepared to visit my family and friends, I had a deep, unsettling feeling that something was about to happen. I tried to rationalize it, telling myself it was probably the accumulation of loss around me that made me feel this way. But deep down, I knew something was coming.
Honestly, I believed it might be my dad. For the past two years, I had been quietly preparing myself for a death in my family. The last time I visited, I remember saying to my parents as I was leaving, “If either of you decide to disincarnate, please give me time to arrive.” On some spiritual level, that message must have been received—because the news that came was not about my parents. Even two weeks before traveling, I found myself rereading The Tibetan Book of Life and Death, preparing for the worst.
My partner and I were already in transit when the news arrived. We were in Auckland, waiting to board our next flight, when I learned that my nephew was no longer with us in this realm. The sadness, shock, and disbelief hit all at once. The way he died made everything even harder to process. I couldn’t shake the intensity of what I was feeling.
In that moment of shock, my partner gently guided me through everything—getting to the gate, boarding the plane, handling logistics I barely remember. Somehow, we even boarded early. Meanwhile, I managed to message a friend, asking if they could pick me up the next day and drive me two hours to my parents’ home before I lost connection for the 12-hour flight.
My friends and my partner are a true blessing. After that long flight—during which I cried endlessly and relied on a large glass of whisky just to sleep a little—we were picked up by two of my closest friends. I was met with the warmest, most loving hug imaginable. I will never forget how grateful I felt in that moment. Distance, time, busy lives—none of it mattered. They were there. Kind, compassionate, loving. What more could I ask for?
The following weeks were incredibly difficult, especially because my nephew’s death was not from natural causes. Now, more than a month later, I feel called to share a few things I’ve learned through this process, in case they help someone else who is grieving.
Grief looks different for everyone. Each person processes loss in their own way, on their own timeline. Accept this. Practice compassion. Avoid blame, arguments, or the need to be “right.” Nothing will bring your loved one back, and adding conflict only deepens the pain. Love one another. Support each other. Grieve on your own terms. Some people may express anger—it is not about you. Please don’t take it personally.
Allow yourself to feel your emotions fully, and seek professional support if you need it. Often, early support can help prevent deeper struggles like depression or unhealthy coping mechanisms such as excessive drinking, substance use, or lashing out at others.
Take care of yourself. Be supportive of others, yes—but don’t forget to do what you encourage others to do. Eat. Hydrate. Rest. Ask for help. Take time to reflect and understand what you’re feeling.
Depending on your family dynamics, you may need to create healthy boundaries or take some distance. This is valid. You do not need to feel guilty for protecting your own well-being.
And don’t feel guilty if, in the midst of grief, you find yourself laughing or smiling at something unexpected. We often believe we must remain sad all the time, but these moments of light are reminders that healing is possible. You are still alive, and joy will eventually be part of your healing. What others think is their concern—not yours.
Remember your loved one through moments of joy, not only through the lens of their death. Celebrate their life, their personality, the laughter, the stories. This supports healing—for you, for your family, and for their soul, which may still be nearby in its own way.
For me, I was fully present during the first two weeks—the thick of it all. But because this wasn’t a natural death, everything became far more complex and emotionally draining. Alongside the grief, I was constantly checking in spiritually, sensing how my nephew was doing on the other side. My mom often asked me what I could feel or see. I spent a lot of time meditating, trying to raise the energetic frequency in our home, which felt incredibly heavy at the time.
Eventually, I realized I needed some distance to regain clarity, peace, and strength. I spent two weeks away with friends, receiving holistic therapies that helped rebalance me and begin my own healing journey. During that time, I received very clear inner guidance about how to move forward—how to care for myself while still being there for my family. When I returned, I was able to support them from a much more grounded place.
Through my spiritual connection, I came to understand my nephew’s decision to leave this world. As painful as it is, I can see how this shock became a profound awakening for our entire family, myself included. At first, his soul felt confused—unsure of where he was or why he couldn’t return. Over time, there has been a gradual understanding, a movement into another stage of integration and awareness about his life on Earth.
Grief is not over. It may never fully be. But I wish his soul the peace he couldn’t find here. I wish for him to understand his journey, to feel free again, to find the light and ascend once more. I am deeply grateful that I was able to be there so quickly, for the loving support I received, and for the inner work I’ve done over the past two years that allowed me to experience death from a different perspective.
I miss you. I will always remember your sense of humor and keep it alive within me. At such a young age, you taught me so much. You were more than a nephew to me—at times, you felt like a son; at others, like a little brother. I will always remember your big heart and the love you shared so freely. I cherish every moment we had together when you were little. Sending you all my love.
Now, we step into 2026—a year of uncertainty and new beginnings. I hope the surprises ahead are gentler and more loving than those at the end of 2025. I’m not fully ready—but I am willing. I’m learning to live with uncertainty, to trust it. Uncertainty is not the enemy. It’s an invitation to openness and faith in the process. When we release the need to control every detail and trust that life is unfolding for our growth, we often find ourselves standing stronger than when we began.
Here’s to a more loving 2026.
I hope you make it—whatever that means for you.
With much love,
Ingrid
