There’s something sacred that happens in the final moments of life—something that moves beneath the fear, the sadness, and the uncertainty. A dear friend of mine is now accompanying her grandmother, a woman of 85, deeply loved by all who know her. After suffering a stroke, she lies unconscious, and yet the love she has given throughout her life continues to move around her, alive in every embrace, every whispered word, every presence that shows up simply to say, “I’m here.”
Watching her family navigate these days reminds me how powerful it is to stay present, even when it hurts. The natural instinct is to turn away from pain, to distract ourselves from the discomfort of losing someone. But when we choose instead to remain—gently, humbly—we open the door to something incredibly human and incredibly healing. These moments invite us to feel everything fully. To be still. To hold hands. To cry together. To remember. And, sometimes, to say the things we’ve never said—or the things we’ve said a hundred times but need to say once more, because saying them is part of letting go.
There’s something that softens when we let the inevitable come, and meet it not with resistance, but with presence. And I keep coming back to three words: acceptance, compassion, and love. These are the ingredients that, when present, change everything. Acceptance not as defeat, but as surrender to what is—acknowledging that we cannot hold life in place forever. Compassion, for ourselves and for those around us, because we are all doing our best to love and to lose. And love, as the thread that weaves through everything. Love that remains when words run out. Love that binds us in the silence. Love that lives on, even when the body begins to let go.
It’s in moments like these—when someone is no longer able to speak, but their presence is unmistakable—that we often feel them the most. Their essence becomes clear, stripped of everything but what truly matters. You begin to see their life reflected in the people who surround them, in the stories being shared, in the care that continues. It’s not a moment of nothingness—it’s a moment overflowing with meaning.
I believe these moments matter. I believe in showing up. Even when we don’t know what to say. Even when it feels like there’s nothing we can do. Because simply being there is already everything. Sitting in silence. Holding a hand. Listening to their favorite song. Remembering aloud. Making space for tears, for laughter, for whatever comes. And doing it together. Because when we grieve together, the weight shifts. The pain is shared, the love multiplies, and the farewell becomes something sacred.
The grandmother of my friend will leave behind more than her body. She will leave behind her presence, her joy, her love, her legacy. Even now, in stillness, she is giving something to each person around her. And I can’t help but feel that this is what we all hope for—that the love we give in life will continue, long after we’re gone.
When I witness these moments—raw and real, filled with tenderness—I remember why I’m on this path. Even through the pain, something in me recognizes the meaning. These experiences gently whisper that I’m exactly where I need to be. That Pachamama was born from this same love. And that it has purpose.
If you’re standing at the edge of a goodbye, or remembering one you’ve already lived, I hope you can be gentle with yourself. I hope you can stay close to the love. And I hope you know that even when everything else feels uncertain, the love remains. It always does.
With tenderness,
Virginia