21/02/2025
In 2002, when I was in my 20s, my world shifted. My mum died, and I was left navigating the deep, raw waves of grief. At the time, I had been playing around with Tai Chi for about 18 months—enjoying the movements, the flow, the gentle discipline. But it was in the aftermath of loss that Tai Chi truly revealed itself to me.
Suddenly, it wasn’t just an exercise or something interesting to explore. It became a lifeline. The depths, the spiritual aspects—if you will—the quiet strength and deep purpose of the practice unfolded before me. In moments when words failed, when emotions felt too heavy to carry, Tai Chi was there. A silent, steady companion.
Each movement felt like a conversation with something greater. A way to process without pressure. A way to stay present when my mind wanted to drift into the past or fear the future. The slow, intentional flow mirrored the grief—sometimes soft, sometimes overwhelming, but always moving.
Tai Chi offered me a space to breathe, to connect with my body when it felt disconnected, to release tension without forcing anything. It supported my heart in ways I couldn’t have imagined—allowing me to feel, to heal, to keep going.
Now, more than 20 years later, I see even more clearly how powerful this practice is—not just for grief, but for all of life’s transitions. It’s a practice that holds, steadies, and strengthens us, whether we are aware of it at the time or not.
Today, the 21st of February, marks the 23rd anniversary of her passing. As I reflect on this journey, I am reminded again of how Tai Chi met me in my deepest sorrow and continues to support me in ways both seen and unseen.
If you’ve ever found yourself in a moment of loss or transition, know that movement can be a guide. Not to rush the process, but to support you through it. Tai Chi is there, waiting, ready to meet you exactly where you are.
