Two days before my 50th birthday, I find myself circling back to my Aunt Katherine—the woman my mom told me I was most like. Sometimes she said it like a compliment, other times like a warning.
Katherine was born on January 19, 1952, and on Thursday January 17, 2002, she took her life. The year she left, her birthday fell on a Saturday, the same as mine does this year.
I’m sitting here at 49, waiting to turn 50 on Saturday. This very day in my Aunt Kath’s life was the day she was preparing to leave. The alignment feels eerie, like a cosmic riddle that lingers in me. I’ve stepped into the exact place on the calendar where she stood, but unlike her, I am preparing to stay.
She was brilliant, industrious, and full of contradictions: a yoga teacher, physical therapist, and acupuncturist who helped countless people heal, yet could not always find that same healing for herself. She wove her own wool, made her own clothes, walked through the world with grace, and designed a beautiful home for herself. And yet, in her final chapter, despair moved in like uninvited houseguests she couldn’t evict.
The story I was told is that she walked into the woods on her property, leaned against one of her beloved trees, and cut herself free from this world. Her ex-husband told their daughter that she had frozen to death—a truth wrapped in a lie. Later, when the truth surfaced, my cousin had to grieve her mother all over again.
For me, the wound has always been twofold: losing the aunt I admired and having my mother throw her story at me like a cautionary tale. Get your life together, or you’ll end up like my sister, Katherine. Those words cut deeper than they probably ever meant to.
But in 2018, on a rough Valentine’s Day during my separation, I made a decision. I walked into a tattoo parlor in downtown Victoria and had a tiny tree etched onto my left wrist. The tattoo artist ran out of time so left my tiny tree unrooted. Today I am hoping to correct that and have roots and the lunar cycle added to my tattoo. It serves as a reminder to live. A visual anchor to say: the generational curse stops here.
Last night, sitting in this little cabin I’ve cultivated, I gave myself permission to do something I had never done—fully grieve her. I poured a glass of wine, thought about her life, and let myself cry, wail even, like those women from traditions where keening is sacred—an ancient practice of releasing grief with sound.
“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.” —Washington Irving
This morning, I woke up to the sunrise. And it struck me that on the morning of her death, at 49, nearly 50, she was preparing to leave. I, at 49 turning 50, am preparing to stay.
As I was sitting in contemplation writing this story, a rainbow from one of my prisms landed on the tattoo on my wrist. I like to think it was my aunt’s spirit letting me know she’s at peace.
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” —Rumi
Her brother, my uncle, once told me that when he went to identify her body, her face looked peaceful. I’ve never been able to imagine that peace—until maybe today. Because in telling this story, in releasing it, I feel a small measure of inner peace myself.
And Katherine’s line didn’t end with her. Her daughter, Martha, now has two beautiful little girls of her own—wild and free. I remember doing yoga with my aunt and little cousin once upon a time, mats rolled out, our breath rising and falling together. Sometimes I ache that Martha cannot have her mother beside her for those same moments with her daughters. But instead of staying in that grief, I imagine another way forward: to one day sit with Martha and her girls, maybe with my own daughters too, and let our breath weave the generations together on the mat.
“Yoga is the journey of the self, through the self, to the self.” —The Bhagavad Gita
I wish my daughters had known her. I wish her brilliance, her artistry, and her laughter had rippled into their lives. But maybe, in some twisted grace, the baton she handed down was not her death, but the lesson to choose life.
“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot.” —Jamie Anderson
So here I am, two days from fifty, holding both the sorrow and the beauty. Grieving, but also grateful. A little cracked, but also breaking open.
And unlike my aunt, I choose life. Because even with its shadows, life still holds sunrises, laughter, and so many moments my aunt never got to witness. Maybe that’s the bravest thing we can do. To keep choosing life, again and again.,
If you’ve carried grief that never had space to breathe—maybe now is your moment. Find a quiet place, give yourself permission to feel it all, even if it’s messy, even if it doesn’t make sense. Tears don’t weaken us; they water our roots. And if you’re longing for someone you can’t reach anymore, ask yourself: Is there another way I can honor them by living out what they loved?
Maybe this is the real inheritance: not money, not property, not even family stories. But the choice to keep living. To keep showing up. To keep saying yes when the shadow says no.
And so, I ask you: What is the one small reminder you can create for yourself—like my tree tattoo—that keeps you here, keeps you alive, and keeps you choosing to continue living and loving your story?
And remember, you do not need to walk this path alone. I am here. If you need support, please reach out or share your story with me.
From my heart to yours, Joy
✨ Tarot Card for This Post: The Star
The Star is about renewal, healing, and hope after devastation. It’s the card of washing away grief under the night sky and remembering that light always returns. To me, it feels like Katherine’s message is not just about her death—it’s about the possibility of peace, of living with openness and love even after deep wounds.
Unscripted Joy 