Navigating Complicated Grief as an Occultist and Medium

Grief isn't linear, it comes in waves, and for me, those waves hit hard over just a few short years. The first major loss I experienced was my dad’s passing in December 2019 after a few months of illness that left him unresponsive. To have him pass on my birthday—well, that was so typical of him, always making things about him! I say that with a grin on my face. Dad was larger than life and couldn’t wait to be old enough to be a “proper eccentric old man.” He passed at just 74, but he absolutely nailed the eccentric part.

Just a year later, my beloved dog Scout, who had been with me for 19 years, passed away. The year after that, my grandmother—one of my best friends—passed at the age of 95. Her death, while deeply sad, wasn’t unexpected; she had always said that someday soon she would have "to go away."

And then came the most devastating of them all: my Mom. My spirited, strong, fearless mother. My partner in crime, my "ride or die." Her cancer diagnosis came suddenly, and within just 10 days, she was gone. In those short days, we talked a lot, left nothing unsaid. She wasn’t afraid of dying, just afraid of more pain. She didn’t even want to make it to another Christmas, which was shocking because this woman WAS Christmas—she left the tree up and played Christmas songs all year long, and we’d have to drive past the house pretending we didn’t know it was hers so she could make us "ooh" and "ahh" at her decorations.

She wasn’t worried about me or how I'd be after she died. She knew I had a strong spiritual practice and an incredible family of friends to support me. She was so positive, as much as one can be in incredible pain on her deathbed. But watching her suffer in those final days broke my heart, and despite the fact that we had such meaningful conversations, her passing—along with all the others in just three years—really put my core belief system to the test.

Even though I deeply believe in the effects of magickal practice and death as a transition, and despite my skills as a medium, the weight of these losses felt unbearable at times.

And then, just when I thought I had steadied myself, we lost Jess. My soul sister. A brilliant and deeply gifted professional medium who was one of my biggest champions, always encouraging me to step fully into my own abilities. After a very long and difficult hospital stay, she transitioned from this world, leaving behind a space that no one else could fill.

Jess was an earth angel—the kind of person who lit up a room with her laughter, who never let you doubt yourself, and who carried the spirit of Merlin, magic, and mischief in everything she did. We had a tradition of talking on the phone every New Year’s Eve, reflecting on our journeys and the year ahead. We bonded over The Golden Girls, our love for the mystical, and our shared passion for mediumship.

But here’s the thing: I know she’s still here. I feel her, her enormous presence, her laugh—big, booming, full of life—reminding me that I am. That she is. That, as her own business name suggested, she is still “In Touch with Spirit.” And that’s exactly what she’s telling me now: to trust in my own power, to keep going, to remember that death is not an end.

The Grace and Grit of Grief

Grief isn’t linear. It comes in waves. Sharp, sudden, tidal. And for me, those waves have come fast and without mercy over the past few years.

My father died in December 2019. On my birthday, of course. So like him. I say that with a smile, because Dad was larger than life. He always said he couldn’t wait to be a “proper eccentric old man.” He didn’t make it to 80, but he absolutely nailed the eccentric part.

Then came Scout, my dog, my familiar, my soul companion of 19 years. Then my grandmother, my Grammy, my constant and my soft place to land. She had always said, “I’ll have to go away soon,” and at 96 she had lived a full, rich life, but still. Nothing prepares you for the silence of someone who loved you like that being gone.

And then my mother. Oh, my mother. My wild, bold, brilliant mom. She was the matriarch, the comic relief, the one who kept the Christmas tree up all year. She loved hard, laughed loud, and never let anything go unsaid. We had ten days from diagnosis to death. We spent every one of them in deep conversation, reliving memories, whispering forgiveness, and making peace. She wasn’t afraid to die. She was afraid of pain. She didn’t want to live through one more Christmas, which was ironic for the woman who was Christmas.

Her death broke me. But I thought it also sealed me. I truly believed that the grief of losing her, on top of all the others, had burned something clean inside me. I thought I had already grieved as deeply as a person could. That I had somehow stepped beyond devastation into a place where nothing could surprise me anymore.

But then came Alex.

Last year, her cancer came back, and I knew she was dying. I hate to say that now, but I felt it in my bones. One day in March, when I did Reiki for her, her tumors spoke to me. And I knew. They weren’t going to budge. Something in my body, in my spirit, just knew the truth before anyone said it out loud.

And still, her death gutted me in a way I did not see coming.

Alex was one of the most alive people I have ever known. She took up space in the best way. Danced barefoot in the rain. Wore her witchcraft on her sleeve. Sucked the marrow out of life without apology. She was radiant, irreverent, deeply intuitive, and full of grace. When she got sick, I knew I would be there. I couldn’t not be.

And so I was. I sat by her bedside for hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes in laughter, sometimes in the most sacred conversations I have ever had. We cried. We giggled. We made petitions and envisioned them flowing down the magickal current of the river in our imagination. I held her hand. I kissed her forehead. And she kissed mine. Even in her final days, she was still caring for me too. She would look at me, really look at me, and ask, “Hey, Michelle, how’s your heart today?” It was never one-sided. It was never just about her. We were walking that liminal edge together.

I anointed her with oils. I wrapped her in a cloth that had been blessed in sacred places by Brigid for healing, by the Morrígan for fearlessness, by Queen Maeve for sovereignty. I brought her talismans and stones. I read her poetry. We shared our favorite music. We watched the Nature Channel. I let her rest. I promised her I would not give up on her.

Every time we said goodbye, it was the last thing she would say: “Don’t you dare give up on me.”

“Never,” I would reply.

And I didn’t.

And I won’t.

She never once complained. Her body was failing, but her spirit was luminous. Even when her skin was yellowed, when her legs and belly were swollen, when she could no longer leave her bed or hold her phone, she glowed. She taught me so much in those final weeks. About surrender. About dignity. About presence. About grace and grit. About what it really means to live in the Flow. And her magick never faded. It just shifted.

All the while, I kept asking her silently for a sign. I wanted to know what she truly believed about what happens when we die. Could she feel me? Could I feel her? Was it really possible to reach through the veil?

Not long ago, my phone answered for her. Out of nowhere, a video began to play, one of Alex’s that I had never seen. In it, she was talking about exactly that: what it feels like when our dead reach for us. She said she only knew from her own experience, how when people she loved died, they felt like they were right there giving her a hug. She spoke about being gifted a meditation from a dear friend who had passed, how if you think of your loved one and send them love, and just hold out your finger with all your focus on that love, they will feel it. That finger, she said, pierces the veil. They will be with you.

I needed that video. It was Alex, from beyond, answering the very questions I had been whispering to her.

The night after she died, a Tuesday in the hour of Venus, I went to my altar. When the noise of caretaking finally stopped, I could hear the silence. One breath. That is all it takes, for it all to end. One minute you are juggling group texts, pouring love into every detail, and the next you are alone with the hollow question: Now what?

So I went within. I called on my guides. I called on Alex. I asked her to take her place on the other side, among the mighty dead, and join my council in spirit.

And she said yes.

She answered in the way only she would, in dream and in song.

The next morning, I woke up smiling her smile. That half-Elvish, half-Elvis grin. I had asked her, before bed, “Where are you?” And then a song I had never heard before suddenly started playing on my phone:

“Where does everybody go when they go? I am here.”

And she is. She always will be.

That is what grief has taught me again and again. Love doesn’t die. It transforms. It lingers. It weaves itself into our rituals, our songs, our sleep, our breath.

Even as a medium, someone trained to speak to the dead and to work with ancestors, I am still stunned by the ache of physical absence. I have felt my loved ones come through with undeniable clarity. I have received messages only they could send. I believe, with every fiber of my being, that the soul continues.

But believing does not mean I do not hurt.

Sometimes the grief is so heavy it feels like I will drown. And I wonder: What if I forget my dad’s laugh? What if I can’t hear my Grammy’s Lawrence, Massachusetts, accent anymore? What if I lose the exact way my mom said, “Oh, SHELL, for God’s sake,” or the way Alex used to growl-giggle with that sideways smirk?

And yet, in those very moments, they find me. I feel them.

They come through in spirit. In signs. In candlelight. In memory. In dream.

Grief and magick coexist. That is what I know now. Sorrow does not cancel out spirituality. If anything, it teaches us to feel more deeply, not less. It asks us to sit with the ache and the awe. To feel the loss and the love. To honor the tears and the knowing.

Grief is not weakness. Grief is proof that love exists. It is sacred. It means you loved so deeply that your heart had to break open to hold it all.

And when you call on them, your beloved dead, they answer.

They always answer.

That is the gift of spirit work.

And the grace of those we have lost.

They are not gone.

They have simply shifted form.

And they are still here.

And grief doesn’t just come in the form of physical death. There are other kinds of loss, other kinds of grief. Saying goodbye to a 30-year friendship is its own kind of mourning. We met as 20-year-olds full of fire and ambition, and now, at 50, we’ve simply grown apart. There was no big betrayal, no defining moment—just the slow realization that we were walking different paths. And that’s okay. Some losses come not with tragedy, but with quiet acceptance. Even when you choose to let go, there is grief.

I’ve always believed that death is not the end. It’s simply a shift, a transition of energy. In my practice, I regularly communicate with spirits, connect with ancestors, and work with the divine. I’ve spent years reassuring others that their loved ones are still with them, accessible in spirit. But despite this deep belief and understanding, I struggled with my own complicated grief. The losses I experienced during those years felt insurmountable. Even though I knew my loved ones were still around in spirit, the ache of not having them physically here was immense. 

What I didn’t expect was how hard it would be to hold space for both my spiritual beliefs and my very human emotions. Knowing that death is a shift didn’t make the pain of their absence any less real. My magickal practice was a comfort, yes, but there were moments when I questioned why, if I believed so strongly in the continuation of the soul, I still felt so much pain. What if I forgot my dear Grammy’s Lawrence, MA accent? What if I couldn’t recall Dad’s laugh or Mom’s favorite episode of Twilight Zone? (There were two, by the way—"Next Stop Willoughby" and "Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder.")

The truth is, grief doesn’t follow any rules. It doesn’t care about what we believe or how spiritually attuned we are. It comes in waves, crashing over us no matter how much we understand on a spiritual level. But what I’ve come to realize is that grief and belief can coexist. We can honor the deep sadness we feel while also knowing that death is not the final goodbye.

For me, mediumship has been an incredible tool in navigating this balance. Mediumship provides a bridge—a way to connect with loved ones who have crossed over, not just in theory, but in real, tangible moments of communication. Even though I know death is a transition, hearing my mother’s voice through spirit, receiving messages that only she would know, and feeling her presence so strongly during a reading brought me a type of healing I couldn’t find on my own. It’s one thing to believe in the continuation of the soul, but it’s another to experience that connection in real time.

In one particular session, I was the client, and my mom came through to tell the medium to "take care of my daughter." That was so spot on because anyone who knew my mom can hear just how she would’ve said that to someone, even a stranger! She was always concerned that "someone takes care of you for once," and it wasn’t out of line for her to ask the medium, who didn’t know me, to take care of me. As a medium myself, I knew that was her way of offering validation and reassurance.

My own mediumship practice has allowed me to understand, through working with others’ loved ones, that my own loved ones are still very much a part of my life, even if they aren’t physically here. They are still watching over me, guiding me, and most importantly, they’re still connected to me through the unbreakable bond of love. That’s the gift of mediumship—it reminds us that the people we miss so deeply aren’t truly gone. They’ve simply shifted into a different form, and they remain accessible whenever we open ourselves to that connection.

If you’re struggling with grief—whether it’s recent or something that’s lingered for years—I encourage you to consider mediumship as a tool for healing. It’s not about moving on, but about reconnecting with those who have transitioned, finding peace in the knowledge that they are still present, and allowing that love to fill the space that grief has carved out.

Grief is complicated, and it doesn’t just disappear. But with the help of spirit and the wisdom of those who have passed, we can begin to heal in ways that honor both our pain and our spiritual beliefs. Mediumship gave me that gift, and it’s one I’m honored to offer to others.