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“Processing my loss in the quiet of the valley softened the intensity of it and showed me I wasn’t alone in my grief.”
On a sunny July morning, still wrapped in my shower towel, I learned that my best friend, Matt, died the night before. He was 31.
My mom was diagnosed with dementia the year prior, and losing Matt compounded an already startling new reality: what I loved could disappear, slowly, or all at once, and I wasn’t too young for it to happen.
Over the next four years, my grief cycled through different emotions in an endless loop—anger, fear, anxiety, shock, despair, disbelief, acceptance— and I realized this round-robin of emotions would continue forever, only in gradually lessening intensity.
I searched for others who understood the looping nature of grief, so I set my sights on a grief retreat in the small town of Villa Grove, Colorado. The drive itself, from Denver to the San Luis Valley, felt restorative, with winding, green, and mountainous roads through the vast Pike and San Isabel National Forests, past the quiet towns of Buena Vista, Salida, and Fairplay.
I drove alone, listening to my “No One Compares” playlist, packed with songs Matt played driving us to school in his red Mustang, like “Drive” by Incubus; others we swapped while living in different corners of the country; and now with songs like “Hope” by Alex G that I want to send him, but can’t. I’d texted him once, “You’re still my best friend, you know.” “You’re mine too,” he replied. “No one compares.”
We met when I was 15, a painful time for me—one parent falling into addiction and the other into a habit of disappearing. I got a job at his family’s restaurant, and one day they invited me to move in. That’s where we became close—he’d sit on the edge of my bed, and we’d talk late into the night. I’d found in Matt what Dostoevsky’s Aglaya sought: “I want to talk about everything with at least one person as I talk about things with myself.”
As the years pressed on, people stopped mentioning Matt to me. I wondered if they thought I’d moved on or were afraid of “reminding” me of him. On this grief retreat, I was looking forward to saying his name again, while also hoping to alchemize my grief into something new.
After hours of driving, I finally approached a gravel road that led me underneath a wooden archway that read: Steel Horse Inn. As I drove onto the sprawling land surrounded by green hills and carved by a fast-moving stream, I knew I was in the right place. The property was lined with aspens and hammocks, where I’d later sway quietly, held under the clear blue valley skies.
The venue usually hosts weddings, but the owner was honored to welcome our delicate group. I was given a journal and a letter, handwritten by our retreat leader and wax-sealed with angel wings, and shown to an altar where I placed my photo of Matt, smiling with his guitar.
I settled into my cabin and watched hummingbirds flutter just outside the window, enjoying the feeder’s sweetness. This place was full of life. That night, we sat around the campfire, under the San Luis Valley’s dark sky, when an owl glided just overhead before disappearing into the trees. Some attendees heard wolves howling at night, and I spent one afternoon against an aspen tree, watching a yellow spider weave her perfect web.
We met a few times a day, sharing thoughts we feared were now burdening those close to us. We admitted our lingering questions too: What could I have done? Did they really understand how much I loved them? I said Matt’s name a lot and shared the unique pain of my anticipatory grief for my mom.
One of the hosts, a trauma therapist, led us through a loving kindness meditation. It was profound in the context of this retreat—a reminder to extend to ourselves the love we so easily give to others. This was a prevailing topic: How do we receive support, and even harder, how do we ask for it?
We rode horses in the nearby town of Nathrop, soothed by hoofbeats on dirt paths and through the creek, then ate a picnic lunch with the stable’s friendly cat. Another day, we went forest bathing (shinrin-yoku) on the retreat land, taking a slow, silent walk through the tall rows of greenery, pausing to see, smell, feel, and listen. Once we reached the aspens, we each picked one to commune with, then gathered for a tea ceremony on the earth, honoring the land, the ache of our collective grief, and the love it stemmed from.
A medium arrived at night and shared how hard Matt had tried to get better, using a clunky metaphor about a crane lifting a tractor that sounded just like him.
During golden hour the next night, we ate at a long white table in the middle of a meadow, surrounded by a cool breeze, a babbling creek, and the earthy aroma of the outdoors. It was our closing ceremony, this table of our tender, laughing group, connecting one final time.
I left in the morning feeling understood and lighter for it. This grief retreat was transcendent and validating: processing my loss in the quiet of the valley softened the intensity of it and showed me I wasn’t alone in my grief. My solitude and despair transformed into a felt sense of honor and appreciation for Matt’s brief existence and his loving impact on my life.
It’s been two years since I left a piece of my broken heart in Villa Grove, and the other attendees and I stay connected through social media, quietly rooting for each other as we try to move forward. It feels like we all share a sacred secret in the San Luis Valley.
“It feels like we all share a sacred secret in the San Luis Valley.”
