Love Says 'Good Morning' So Beautifully.
Waking up from a crisis of faith while grieving the loss of a friendship.



A few months ago, I lost a friend.
Not to a literal death, but a metaphorical one my friend chose for us. She said the timing was no longer right to tend to our connection, as I felt the space widen—first through weary heart emojis, then through deafening silence—as our paths drifted apart in ways that seemed irreconcilable.
I was absolutely devastated.
I loved this friend in a way that I find hard to put into words. She reflected the deepest parts of me and held them so beautifully. I saw in her something I had never seen in myself, yet I longed to know and become. It was wild, sacred…the truest thing I think I’ve ever known. And true love isn’t something I take lightly.
Ours felt that way to me, and I’m scared I won’t know truth in that exact way again. Did she feel it too? Was it even real? Did it even happen? I’m still making my peace with not really knowing the answers to these questions and the way our story ended.
The death was messy and painful on both sides.
A metaphorical and actual door slammed in the face of a held out bouquet of roses. Ego murdered in a bloody fashion instead of with a surgeons mercy. A heart-shaped mirror thrown against a wall and shattered into a thousand, tiny, cutting shards of glass. A butterfly in mid-flight torched by a dragon as its ashes fell to the ground. A multidimensional vision of a rainbow bridge slowly erased on one side–uncrossable.
I don’t know how it felt for her, but that’s what it was like for me.
It was soul crushing to lose each other in this way. To lose someone who reflected back our essence and whose essence we saw. All I could do was watch as she walked away from something real. Made a choice to work for something that, at least from my limited surface level of understanding, seemed devoid of actual purpose and meaning. To watch reduced to a hollow footnote what was, in my eyes, a heart’s mission and a life’s purpose. To have to keep living without a proper goodbye.
I’ve been grieving the loss of this connection for five months. All while traveling full time, tending to my work, and the nourishment of myself and others. It’s been heavy. It’s been bittersweet. There have been moments of ecstatic joy as I let myself remember what we shared, right alongside moments of deep despair processing through the layers of grief and slowly surrendering to the knowing – that other people’s lives and what they decide to do with their own heart and soul is their business – completely outside of my control and not my responsibility. Still…
Sometimes life wounds us so deeply. To the point where we start bargaining, doubting, and questioning what we believe in and wondering if our tears serve a purpose; if our love is wasted. It’s how I’ve been feeling these many months, though I didn’t have the words to speak life into my crisis of faith until now.
My investment in this relationship didn’t just come from my wallet or my ten-year strategic master plan, it came from the deepest parts of me. So, when it all ended, I didn’t just feel like I lost a friend or partner. I felt like I lost part of myself – an innocent, pure, deeply devoted part who believed wholeheartedly in everything she had created.
Yet, even a loss of faith can lead us to a deeper connection to God and self, if we are willing to live our feelings all the way through, wake up, and answer the souls call.
That’s the thought I woke up to this morning as I sat down on the couch with a coffee cup printed with the words ‘Wake Up Call’ and stared out the window toward the peak of Mount Mansfield from my temporary home in Vermont.
In the quiet of the morning, my soul began to settle. I looked out the window to notice the light from the morning sun just as it reached the edge of the ridge line, not yet risen above it but still visible like a gentle peeking of warmth and promise from the sky. The poet in me always notices these little details from the natural world.
I stared at it for a moment, then sat down to rest with my coffee. I took a sip and reached for the book I picked up the day before from Flying Pig Books in Burlington. How to Love Better: The Path to Deeper Connection Through Growth, Kindness and Compassion by Yung Pueblo. The title called to the small part of me who remained hopeful through the thick morning fog of loss still hovering in my heart and spirit.
I was about to flip open to the first page, when suddenly, the sun rose magnificently above the ridge at the peak of the mountain and poured its light through the glass door and showered me in its radiant warmth, holding nothing back.
It was a breathtaking moment I let myself simply…receive.
It was like God revealed himself to me – just to say ‘good morning’ and to reassure me that my pain and crisis were not without witness or care. Love was here, holding me – as sure as the cup of coffee I held in my hand.
I started crying as I set it down and raised my voice to be heard: Good morning, God. Thank you. I really needed that. I miss her. This is too much for me.
Love replied: I know, child. I know. See if you can write about it.
Which brings me here, still not knowing what comes next. Still feeling the ache of what was lost, and imagining I will for a long time as I sit beside a grave carved in the name of truth and plant flowers in honor of the beauty it reflected back to me.
This morning reminded me that even in the storms of grief, light still finds its way through. That God, or the universe, or whatever name we give to love itself, keeps showing up. Even when humans leave. Even when they can’t stay and no amount of explanation would suffice. Maybe the love I thought I had lost isn’t gone after all. Maybe it’s changing form—moving from the hands of another back into my own.
Maybe God is using what we had together to shape me and prepare me for something much greater than I could imagine. Maybe the death is just another rebirth. Honestly, I don’t know. Answers evade me just as much as ever. But in the light of the morning sun, I feel the crisis easing and hope rising again – knowing love is never wasted.
Some might call this level of devotion foolish. Ask me why I put myself through this instead of packing it inside a neat and tidy box? Because honestly, this is all I know how to do with a heart like mine…and because the alternative just isn’t something I can live with. I would lose sleep at night. I would lose my appetite. I would lose myself.
And that’s a kind of loss I don’t think I could survive more than once.
And maybe that’s what faith really is: not certainty, but a choice to stay open anyway. To keep living even after death. To love even when love is not returned. To grieve the passing of something sacred and beautiful all the way through, and still leave the porch light on if the love ever decides to return from the Otherside and close the loop.
So for now, I’ll keep watching my sun rises. I’ll keep drinking my coffee slowly. I’ll keep letting myself cry, pray, and hope that somewhere over the rainbow bridge there’s a way back. I’ll keep tending my grave in memory of this beautiful friend who saved me in so many ways. I’ll keep learning to love better, because I made us a promise.
To always keep the door open even as she closed it. Not because I’m standing in the doorway waiting for her, but because I’m still here. I’m not erased. What we had isn’t gone. The heart remains open, and I’m tending to it all with the care it truly deserves.
And maybe someday, somewhere over the rainbow, far beyond right and wrong, where bluebirds fly, and peace abides, we’ll find each other again.
In the garden we grew together.
Love,
Leah
PS. I have been changed for good.
A Gentle Invitation
If you loved this love letter, I want you to know that this is the kind of devotion I carry into my work at The Nourished Sensitive. What we’re growing here is not a business strategy or a neat and tidy box—it’s a living, breathing, wild kind of secret garden where grief, love, faith, and beauty all have space to belong.
If you’ve been carrying your own quiet losses or longing for soul-deep connection, I’d love to invite you into the garden with us. Inside The Nourished Sensitive Collective, I share my private love letters, host tender circles, and create spaces for sensitive, open-hearted souls to remember that they’re not alone in their becoming.
You can step inside here.
Oh Leah, I’m so sorry this happened. I’ve lost some amazing friendships over the years and it’s devastating. Just as painful as the loss of a romantic relationship. Sending you lots of love and hugs. If you ever want to vent about it, let me know. 😞🤗🥰