Finding Perspective Among the Headstones

Most people don’t think of a cemetery as a place to find peace, joy, or clarity. If you haven’t figured out yet, I’m not most people and you haven’t met my dogs. 

It started with Kramer and Ryan, and now Kosmo, my four-legged sons. They LOVE my long walks through the cemetery. For them it isn’t a place of mourning, it’s a full-on celebration of life. They dart between the headstones, tongues hanging out, tails flying like they own the place. Their joy was infectious. I assure you no one is resting in peace as I shout their names, summoning them back from their adventures. Even on the heaviest days, they remind here me: we’re still here. We’re still moving.

But for me, that cemetery holds more than just wagging tails and wide-open paths. It’s sacred ground.

A Place of Grief and Grace

My oldest daughter, Caroline, is buried there. And now so are my parents. In the early days after Caroline died, I went every single day. If I didn’t, something inside me would unravel. It wasn’t logical—it was emotional. I couldn’t bear the thought of her being alone. Surrounded by strangers. Unprotected from the dark.

Grief doesn’t ask for permission. It doesn’t always make sense. But it shows up—and it demands to be felt.

Over time, that daily desperation softened into something different. Now, the cemetery brings a beautiful sort of peace. It’s familiar. It’s become a walking trail, a reflection spot, and even—oddly—a family tradition.

My girls and I walk its paths together. We wave hello to the same names and markers. The dogs treat it like a joyful romp through history—at least until the month they both got skunked, and we figured maybe the spirits were telling us to take a break. Message received!

Learning from the Past

As I walk those quiet paths, I often stop to read the names etched in stone. Some headstones go back more than 150 years. They whisper stories of love, loss, and lives cut short. One place I always return to is the resting spot of the Donovan sisters,Margaret and Helen. Two and four years old. Gone just a month apart. Likely victims of one of the Covid-like illnesses that swept through so many families in during that time. 

Having lost and buried a child myself, I still can’t imagine that kind of compounded loss. I wonder: How did their parents go on? How did they survive that?

Every time I stop by the Donovan sisters, I feel this ache, and then gratitude. The road I’ve traveled hasn’t been easy, but I have been so blessed along the way. There but for the grace of God go I.

The Gift of Perspective

Here’s what I’ve learned in all those walks and quiet conversations with the past:
Perspective doesn’t just help us survive the hard stuff, it helps us see ourselves differently because of it.

It invites us to zoom out, breathe deeper, and notice the growth we might’ve missed while we were just trying to get through the day.

Even in grief, there can be grace. Even in quiet places, we can rediscover joy. And even in the messiest chapters, there’s space to begin again if we choose to: stronger, softer, wiser.

That’s the beauty of perspective. It’s not just something we have or find if we go looking for it. It’s something that changes us. And once it does, we don’t go back to who we were before. We move forward, a little more grounded. A little more awake. A little more, dare I say, resilient!

Ready for a New Chapter?

If this message landed with you and you're ready to step into a new chapter, I’d love to walk with you.
Grab a copy of my book, 6 Steps in the Bright Direction. It’s packed with stories and tools to help you shift your mindset, and perspective,  and take bold, doable action toward the life you’re ready to grow into.

And if you or your team could use a guide to help turn fresh perspective into real transformation—I’m here for that too.