I held the hand of a mother whose daughter had passed away.

I held the hand of a mother in grief.

I held the hand of a mother who could not forgive herself for not seeing her daughter’s pain.

And I spoke to her about my journey of forgiving myself.

That it took thirty years for me to forgive myself.

To be brave enough to write my book Belonging.

That I had to be whole in order to find peace.

That I could only write from peace.

A peace that passes all understanding.

A peace that surpasses words.

A peace that is frequency.

A peace that is the energy of love.

And I saw something shift in her soul.

Something shifted in her body.

I told her that her daughter had been an angel.

That was the truth.

Everyone loved her.

There was not a person who did not love her.

She was Courage.

She was strong and kind.

Sensitive and soulful.

Deeply connected to a well, a source of infinite wisdom.

An “old soul”.

I spoke with her not to her.

About self-forgiveness.

My daily conversations with God.

When I regularly err in judgement.

Often with the best intentions.

But causing discomfort, causing others anguish.

Unintended but painful realisation of my actions.

My intensity.

I held her hand, and I asked her if God would want her to forgive herself.

To live in peace.

The peace that passes all understanding.

The peace that knows no words.

I saw something shift in her body.

A glimmer of grief lifted.

Softened.

In love.

The peace of frequency.

The peace of faith.

Forgiveness Articulated In Trust and Hope.

I felt in that moment, so humbled

Such reverence for this path I had somehow been guided to walk

The gift of living

The gift of Grace.

Thank you for tribing with me

Alison