Sitting Between Worlds: My Morning in Ubud

This morning I am sitting on a small balcony in Bali, looking out over the Water Palace. The air is soft with mist, temple bells ring gently in the distance, and offerings rest at every doorway like tiny prayers made visible. On the outside, everything is breathtakingly peaceful. Inside, my heart is still tender, still moving, still remembering.

My mom passed away on January 9th. In the weeks that followed, I lived in a space of doing — caring, organizing, coordinating, deciding, grieving, and carrying far more than I ever imagined I could. Before leaving for Bali, I worked carefully to complete most of her matters so that I could arrive here with as much spaciousness as possible.

And yet, grief does not respect travel plans.

Even here, with the jungle breathing around me, my mother is present — in quiet thoughts, in sudden tears, in warm memories that rise like gentle waves. I’ve come to understand that leaving Canada didn’t mean leaving my grief behind. Instead, I brought it with me as part of my story, my love, and my healing.

Being in Bali feels like sitting in a sacred in-between.

I am between who I have been — a daughter, a caregiver, a witness to loss — and who I am becoming — someone softened, reshaped, and deepened by this journey.

On February 3rd, I will sit with Balinese healers. I’m not going with expectations of dramatic breakthroughs. Instead, I am offering myself — my body, my nervous system, my heart — into a lineage of healing that is ancient, devotional, and profoundly spiritual. I am hoping for release where I have been tight, gentleness where I have been braced, and clarity where I have been overwhelmed.

In Bali, healing is not separate from daily life — it is woven into every offering, every prayer, every breath. That feels deeply comforting to me. It reminds me that grief is not something to fix, but something to walk with, hold, and ultimately transform.

As I sit here with my laptop open, birds moving through the trees and water flowing below, I can already feel that this trip is changing me. I know — in my bones — that I will not be the same woman when I return home. Bali is not just a destination for me; it is a threshold.

I am stepping through it slowly, reverently, and with an open heart.

Healing is not a single moment. It is a spiral. Some days it looks like tears on a balcony. Some days it looks like deep breath in sacred air. And some days it looks like quiet gratitude for being held by a place that understands sorrow and devotion equally.

Wherever you are on your own journey, I invite you to remember this:

Your grief belongs. Your healing belongs. And transformation often begins quietly — in moments just like this one.