Sheri's Place - Companioning Life's Unchosen Chapters

06/11/2026

Good morning! From my place to yours
🌿💜🌿

06/09/2026

Some losses take a life.
Some take a relationship you thought was unbreakable.
Some take the version of you that existed before a diagnosis.
Some take the ease you imagined motherhood would have.
Some take the dog who greeted you at the door.
Some take a father’s laugh.
All of them change the way the world sounds.

Lately, memories and moments have been tapping on my shoulder
the kind that make your breath catch,
the kind that remind you how quickly “fine” can turn into before everything shifted,
the kind that settle under the surface of ordinary days.

I don’t share this for sympathy.
I share it because this is the terrain I walk
in my own life, and beside others.

Grief isn’t only about death.
It’s the ache of family estrangement,
the quiet mourning of the mother you thought you’d be,
the weight of raising sensitive children in a world that feels too loud,
the identity you lose when life hands you a chapter you never asked for.

It’s the grief of what didn’t happen,
what should have happened,
what you hoped would happen.

This is why I call myself a grief companion.
Not a coach.
Not someone with a formula.
Just a person who knows the shape of these unchosen chapters
and is willing to sit in them with you.

If your days carry a quiet ache,
if your memories fall down your cheeks sometimes,
if you’re learning how to live with the empty spaces,
the new realities,
or the relationships that no longer exist
you’re not alone in that.

You’re simply human, loving what was,
and trying to make sense of what is.

This is the work I do:
walking with people through the chapters they never asked for,
the ones that reshape them,
the ones that still whisper,
“God, I wish things were different.”

05/28/2026

There are times in life where the grief comes out sideways.

Where the pages of every unchosen chapter stack upon eachother and create turmoil so deep you aren't even sure where it started.

It wasn't one thing, it was many.

It was every swallowed word
Every broken hearted conversation and
Every attempt at finding yourself
Only to sit in the silence of a life forever changed.

The pages stolen by unchosen chapters, the detour of contentment which feels empty upon the comparison of yesteryears.

Finding emptiness in the hollowness of a page drained of all its words is easy.

Pages that held plans, hopes, dreams and a life you once knew to be your future, now, become blank.

It is within that blank page that grief sits silently heavy as it screams in the background of your scramble to find a pen. Somehow your ability to write, to even choose what pen to use becomes paralyzing.

Does one use a pencil to tread softly on the page to erase the mistakes and try again... or to simply enter the story subtlety?

Or does one use a pen, to be bold and unmistakable? To claim the pages and the life, to move with the story as it unfolds? And by what color should one do this?

Or perhaps one uses both a pencil and a pen and all the colors for the story has become richer than it was before.
In the hallowed out pages one finds the words the hopes and the dreams that once existed though this time tainted by the silent screams of grief.

Rewriting over used pages whilst the world looks at them as fresh. The story is faded on the page as you begin to write, you can still see it, though no one else can.

The desperation of a clean fresh page, yet the loyalty to the pages already used creates a story within the story that is only held by the author and is often left unshared...

Afterall, people forget you're writing a story on worn paper as they continue theirs on fresh pages.

Though some of life's most treasured books are those with worn pages, old ink, and leather backs. Just even being graced with such a book holds honor and you havent even begun the story.

So, as one must... we begin to write, we begin to become the imperfect, broken hearted authors of our story, of our lives...

And as you begin on that hallowed page...
Trust the healing is happening.
Your people are coming.
And contentment is being built in every refusal to quit writing on a worn page, even if the ink starts to dry.

05/13/2026

I adore Avi Kaplan's music, it's often a toss-up between Kaleo and Avi for my delight.

As I was on my way home, First Place I go, came through the speakers. I've heard this song countless times, but this time was different.

Our home is no stranger to anxiety.
Unchosen chapters have a way of shifting the soul.
Estrangement mixed with CPTSD can create self-sabotage, and a narrative in your mind you work hard to escape.

This song didn't just play.. it landed.

If you’ve ever felt the weight of an unexpected chapter, or the quiet work of rebuilding your inner world, take a listen and tell me what it brings up for you.

First Place I Go - Avi Kaplan

https://youtu.be/ILGLfo233EA?si=TnHyc_-ahmJGcrnX

Song by Avi Kaplan

05/08/2026

How to Work With Me (Because Trying to Write the “Perfect” Post Clearly Isn’t Working)🙃
I haven’t posted because I keep trying to write the “perfect” thing, and shockingly… that has not worked.
I see influencers and polished businesses doing their thing and, well... surprise... I don’t fit in.

So let’s just approach this like regular life: imperfect and real.

Here’s what I offer:

🌿Companionship for Life’s Unchosen Chapters
What does that even mean?
It means if you’re having a hard time and need someone to talk to, come on in.
You might be a caregiver, estranged from family, navigating a cancer diagnosis, carrying old grief, or just… dealing with life being life.
If you need an ear, I’m here.

✨Reiki
The magical state of relaxation — like the nap you fantasize about where your whole body finally exhales.
A reset for your nervous system.

🌿Intuitive Guidance
For the weird and wonderful.
For the spiritual-but-not-aesthetic, the ones who don’t fit in boxes, and the ones who don’t buy into the “just raise your vibe” pressure.
Real intuition, real grounding, real conversation.

☕️“Coffee’s On Me” Meeting
If you have no idea what you need, start here.
No pressure, no sales pitch, no performance — just two humans getting to know each other and seeing what fits.

How to Book:
DM or via the Link in the comments.

Sessions In Person & Online

03/31/2026

Stepping outside to go to the bus my heart swelled.

The sun peaking through the trees with promise of warmer days.

One cannot help but close their eyes and soak in the breath of fresh air, the gratitude of a bright day, and the way the air touches your skin.

Like many I dream of the softness that warm air brings, however today, I held the bite of the cold on my skin, this to shall pass and the beauty in the stillness will once again fade.

Today as I gazed at the sun through the trees I noticed the misty air that float through the branches and wondered if what I was feeling, sensing and thinking was that too of the trees.

How wonderful it is to be surrounded by such beauty.
Some may see just plain trees, some may see those frickin poplars, I see so many friends, so many secrets, so much of everything I am and every story I've told to the branches of beauty I dream of.
This yard whilst it isn't me, it's everything in me.

03/28/2026

This is my dad’s coffee mug.
The sticker is worn from his hands, and now from mine.
The logo is from the job that took him away more than it brought him home. They’ve rebranded since he died. New colors, new design. But this old one feels like him. Irreplaceable, like he was.

Most mornings I drink from it and send a quiet “good morning, sunshine” into the light, hoping he catches it somewhere.

Grief as a friend rests in the ordinary.
It reminds me that like them, it is everywhere and nowhere.

In the way I still reach for this cup without thinking.
In the habits that stayed long after he didn’t.
In the small moments that feel like him for no reason at all.

One day this mug will break.
I think about that
where our love will travel when the mug is gone.

And then I remember:
Our love isn’t in the mug.
It’s everywhere and nowhere.
It’s with me always.

03/24/2026

I watched a Reel yesterday that spoke about grief as a symptom to fix — to heal — and it’s been sitting with me.

It asked:
“Have you ever been in a grief group and found yourself talking about the same thing over and over?”

And while rumination, like anything in excess, can be unhealthy, talking about your pain in safe spaces is rarely a symptom to fix.
It’s a pathway.

A pathway to let others see what was unseen.
A pathway to allow others to hold what was unheld.
A pathway to finally be witnessed in the places where you’re still bleeding.

Pain that asks to be repeated isn’t trying to trap you.
It’s asking for more compassion.
More witnessing.
More love.

It’s pain that still bleeds and still needs presence to heal.

Healing often happens in community - when someone says,
“I see you. I’ll stay.”

Healing happens with companionship.

03/21/2026

People sometimes ask how I learned to sit with grief the way I do —
how I can hold the heavy things without flinching,
how I can listen without needing to fix,
how I can stay steady when someone’s world is falling apart.

The truth is:
I didn’t learn it in a course.
I didn’t learn it in a book.
My initiation began as a child.

As a child of divorce, like many, I grew up in the space between two adults who were hurting in their own ways.
No one intended harm, but the impact was the same: I learned early how to navigate love that was inconsistent, confusing, or conditional.

And in all of that, my mother had a favorite.
I wasn’t it.

There’s a particular ache in realizing you are the one left waiting —
the one hoping to be chosen,
the one learning to contort yourself into worthiness.

People sometimes call that “desperate for love.”
I used to believe them.
But it wasn’t desperation.
It was survival.
A child will do anything to be loved — including carrying stories that were never theirs to hold.

As I grew older, grief didn’t repeat itself — it accumulated.
Each chapter had its own shape, its own story, its own cost.

The grief of abusive relationships.
The grief of a plane crash.
The grief of cancer.
The grief of motherhood’s thresholds.
The grief of losing my dad — and the grief of family complexities and estrangement that surfaced alongside it.

Different griefs.
Different wounds.
Each one distinct.
Each one asking something new of me.

And through all of it, something in me was being forged — not into strength, but into capacity.
Into intimacy with the places most people turn away from.
Into a steadiness that isn’t confidence, but familiarity.
I know my edges.
I know what I’ve survived.
I know what it costs to keep loving in a world that didn’t always love me back.

This is why I companion the way I do.
Not from theory.
Not from training.
But from lived grief — the kind that rearranges you,
the kind that teaches you how to sit with another’s ache because you learned how to carry your own when no one else knew how.

This is the lineage of my work.
Every chapter I’ve walked — energy healing, end‑of‑life doula training, even the grounded clarity of accounting — has become part of the way I hold others.
All of it lives inside the sanctuary I offer now,
a place built so you don’t have to walk through your grief, your story, your pain alone.

03/12/2026

Reflections from the deck:

There is no sun and the air somehow feels colder on the skin than it did in December. The trees show no signs of waking, but instead reveal who the wind has taken.

A sight that could be easily viewed as depressing to many finds my eye in beauty and awe. The only thing I find depressing is the hum of humans in the background of a chickadees song.

I may prefer warmer days, a gentle breeze and the beauty of a forest that's luscious in its greenery.

However this season.. is one where beauty is met with the soul, within the oneness of creation.

A season where the give equals the take. I can see why some would find it depressing.

As I stand here in this moment, I feel so incredibly spacious and small at the same time. But isn't that what it is to be in awe while standing in oneness?