When There Are No Words

Grief is strange and unpredictable, like life. How to Cope When Leadership Feels Hollow

Some weeks, words don’t come easily. This has been one of those rare weeks for me.

In the last month, I’ve experienced what feels like a storm of sorrow and shock. My stepdad, Chuck, passed away unexpectedly. Then, just a few days after flying across the country to plan his funeral, I found out one of my dearest friends, Stephen, had cancer. He was gone less than three weeks later. Just like that.

I have been trying to put a post together to honor him, my own personal eulogy for a friend, but it’s a work in progress.

The grief has come in waves. Even today, I was out doing errands in the Keys and stopped for lunch. I looked at the menu and spotted a few mocktail options, and in a split-second, I thought: I have to share this with Stephen—he’d love this.
And just as quickly, the next micro-thought hit me: I can’t. He’s gone.

It’s surreal how fast life can change. How it can stack on you—loss after loss, disruption after disruption. As if that weren’t enough, only a few days after I returned home, my 92 year old father-in-law fell and broke his femur and hip. We’ve now entered a heightened season of elder critical care, hospital runs, 150-mile round-trip drives, and navigating what’s next for a human we love who is living with Alzheimer’s.

We postponed our cross country move again, have missed out on other family milestones. And are getting a new roof on our house, a noisy and nerve-jarring endeavor.

When you're a leader—whether in business, family, or life—you often don’t get to pause. People look to you. They rely on you. The obligations don't stop, even when your heart is breaking. And the truth is, when the pressure builds, leaders are just as vulnerable—if not more so—to falling into what I call the negative C-O-R-E-4:
Chaos. Overwhelm. Resistance. Exhaustion.

I’ve been there this month. Not energized. Not centered. Just… sad. On autopilot - feeling like I’m not all completely here.

Everyone grieves differently, and for me, aside from tears, it’s looked like waves of fatigue, moments of disconnection, and sometimes just powering through the to-do list of the day. Writing this post felt nearly impossible.

But I made a promise to myself, and to my readers when I created the C-O-R-E Expressions newsletter—to write from the core, not from performance. To share when I’m clear, and also when I’m cracked wide open. To lead by example, with the hope that you can begin to shed layers of social programming and express yourself in spirit and truth as well.

And so here’s what I have to offer this week, not from a polished pedestal, but from the floor I’m currently sitting on:

When it all hits at once, go gentle. When the losses stack and the energy wanes, don’t push through—breathe through. And when you feel hollow, it’s OK. Hollow spaces make room for light.

In the Corelife Method®, we talk about staying centered, open, resilient, and energized—but being energized doesn't always mean being productive or positive. Sometimes, it means simply choosing not to shut down. Sometimes, it means letting yourself feel it all—the grief, the gratitude, the confusion, the love—and still be open to what’s next.

I don’t have a lesson to teach this week. I just have this truth:
Life is precious. Life is fragile. And the people we love never really leave us.

If you’re going through your own storm right now, know that you’re not alone. And you don’t have to bounce back— just breathe forward.

With love from the core,
Anne

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing … not healing, not curing… that is a friend who cares”. --- Henri Nouwen

R.I.P. Stephen Anthony. I will always love you. 🦚