The last time that I saw my father, I was 7. He died when I was 28. But I truly lost him at 43

Grief. Such a complex topic—one that we do not speak about enough. Grief shows up in many situations; it is not only about the passing of a loved one. In reality, we are all faced with grief throughout our lives, often on a subconscious level. And we rush through those events without honoring them for what they truly are: rites of passage—moments that mark profound transitions and have the power to transform us completely.

Running From Emotions

I have spent most of my life running away from difficult emotions—not consciously, but fear has always been running the show. Difficult emotions were, to me, ugly and incredibly overwhelming, and my own sensitivities scared the living hell out of me. Subconsciously, I was living a life driven by the need to be liked by others, with my inner child of 7 running the show more often than I realized.

My parents divorced when I was 7. Due to a very threatening situation, my mother escaped with my sister and me to another country. As a 7-year-old, I had absolutely no understanding of what was happening—only that life would never be the same. In the years that followed, I started to feel a lot of anger and ended up using party drugs to numb it. From there, I entered the army and spent 9 years in a life where many emotions are seen as weakness—ensuring that I never learned to validate my own feelings.

When I Thought I Forgave Him

At 28, I learned that my father had passed. I remember that moment: I felt a sense of relief and believed I had forgiven him. Many years later, I realized that I hadn’t even started to grieve the man who was my father.

As a result of unprocessed childhood emotions, I was drawn to specific dynamics—intimate relationships where I became the fixer, the pleaser, the “strong one.” A lot of drama, subconsciously playing out my attempt to save my father. And nowhere in that space did I allow room for grief. To me, he was dead and erased from my memories.

The awakening 

At 37, I fell in love—deeply, as never before. I experienced a homecoming, something so familiar, and the perception that I was loved for who I was, not for what I did. Motivated by love, I started meditating and embarked on a deep journey of self-exploration through many types of therapy.

Unfortunately, the relationship never grew into a healthy dynamic. It turned out to be another reenactment of childhood patterns for both of us. What began as something beautiful quickly became a toxic, traumatic journey. I tried everything in my power to fix it, driven by a huge fear of losing this person. But I only made it worse. When my body started to resist and give me vague symptoms, I slowly began to move away. I had no choice—and by that time, I recognized the need to listen to myself.

The shattering 

Two years ago, I left the country, my community, my identity, my purpose—and chose myself. That was the catharsis for all the grief I had never allowed myself to feel. One very painful message on Christmas Eve, showing me I had lost the person I loved, was enough to throw me into the shattering. For three days, I walked in the forest, screamed at the trees, and cried non-stop.

But this time, there was an awareness I had never felt before. After many years of psychological and spiritual work, I had changed tremendously and recognized that I had a deep emptiness within—one I had kept filling with outer validation, trying not to feel the discomfort.

Before that message, I had already spent months allowing myself to sink into that emptiness and feel all that needed to come up. With therapy and the help of some amazing souls, I began to rest in that inner space—the birthplace of love, what the Zen tradition calls the “master of emptiness.”

By allowing myself to rest there, I became more and more in touch with my authentic self and started to enjoy the exploration of my deepest inner worlds.

Discovering the letters 

When I finally received the bad news, I broke. And this time, there was no resistance, as I was ready to feel. Around that time, I discovered the writings of Mirabai Starr, and her reflections on grief completely resonated with me. Grief, when surrendered to, is the deepest spiritual, emotional, and psychological transformation one can experience.

I felt such a heartache, and yet, simultaneously, immense gratitude for the person who hurt me. I was truly happy for her happiness. It was such a bizarre polarity—and ever since, I’ve known that grief can consist of both gratitude and pain. There is no linearity to grief, and it often makes no sense to the human mind. Grief is a heart state.

While working through my grief, I discovered letters from my father. And when I looked at a photo of myself at a very young age, the grief for my father arose. That brought with it the incredible grief for myself—for all those years of not knowing. Even now, tears well up when I think of all those years I tried so hard to be the good person, to be lovable, and never understood where I was going wrong. The shame and deep sadness—for myself, for just not knowing when I needed to know, for often being in the fear of a small child who was just petrified to be left alone. I was 43 when I found the letters. That is when I truly lost my father.

A lifelong process In one month

I will turn 45, and I still have days of sudden grief—for all the different losses in my life. This time,have compassion for myself, and I allow myself to take time out and truly feel the pain when needed—and experience the beauty, when allowing feelings to pass through and transform into love. This time, as with all of my emotional experiences, I fully accept them quicker than ever before.

Grief is a rite of passage. Whether you lose someone to a passing or a breakup, the childhood you never had, the identity you clung to, the country you left, the dog you loved, or the job that once gave you purpose—these are all rites of passage. There is a deep need to pause during these transitions to truly feel them.

In our culture, we don’t really do this. We rush through them, running away from any difficult emotions. But, as I’ve learned, the emotions never truly leave. You cannot outrun them. You can only feel them—deeply—and allow them to pass through you, and thus transform into beauty.

The most beautiful creations have been birthed through grief, and although I wish no one the shattering pain, I do wish to see a world where the transformation brings deep love—for life, for self, and for each other. There is an incredible need for those who can assist others in times of grief and loss. People who have faced their own grief and can hold space for the pain of others. To truly guide someone through grief, one must be accepting of their own feelings and have experienced the true depths of them. And this is a lifelong process—one that can only be done together. No one should be doing this alone, we are meant to heal together.

Rachelle Muschamp

My story began 44 years ago, born in the UK to an English father and a Dutch mother. Their relationship quickly broke down, and when I was seven, my mother fled the country with my five-year-old sister and me. Losing my father at such a young age created a deep sense of abandonment within me, and I quickly learned to suppress my emotions. By the age of twelve, I started to feel lost and turned to drugs, desperately seeking a sense of belonging. I spent years using various party drugs, until—at seventeen—I decided to join the army. To this day, I have no memory of making that decision. It’s a blank spot in my mind, one of many that span from early childhood through my twenties. If I had become disconnected from my emotions by age twelve, drugs only deepened that disconnection. The nine years I spent in the military—where emotions were seen as weakness—further buried any connection to my inner self. During that time, I began suffering from anxiety and panic attacks, slowly realizing that I was, in fact, highly sensitive. Therapy never crossed my mind. I served two tours abroad on antidepressants, which ultimately didn’t help. I left the military at twenty-seven and entered into a twelve-year relationship, unaware that both of us were carrying unhealed trauma. Our connection was marked by intense highs and devastating lows, and eventually became soaked in alcohol. We were unknowingly reenacting our childhood wounds—stuck in a cycle of survival, with no awareness of what was truly happening. I lived in a constant state of fight-or-flight, but I didn’t yet have the language or tools to understand it. Despite the chaos, I always kept myself busy. But in 2017, I met a meditation teacher and committed to a ten-day meditation program. No alcohol, no distractions. During those ten days, an unexpected rage surfaced, and for the first time, I saw that if I didn’t make radical changes, my life was headed for disaster. When that relationship ended, I made a vow to myself: I would turn over every stone to understand what was "wrong" with me. I felt deeply broken—and I was determined to heal. What followed were years of therapy: EMDR, CBT, somatic work, breathwork, and spiritual exploration. I lived briefly in an ashram in Bali, became a yoga teacher, and continued searching. Eventually, I came across the work of Dr. Gabor Maté. I attended one of his masterclasses and was blown away by the effectiveness of Compassionate Inquiry. Although I had already made significant progress, there was still a persistent “darkness” I couldn’t shake. Other methods that seemed to help others left me frustrated—until I found this approach, along with Internal Family Systems therapy. I spent 18 months training in Compassionate Inquiry under Dr. Gabor Maté. More recently, I joined a course led by David Kessler, deepening my capacity to support clients navigating grief and loss—something that often surfaces during deep inner work.

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