wave therapy

Entry 02 — for Kathi A story I return to often — one that always makes me smile with my whole heart.

To understand the value and depth of something I call wave therapy, you don’t need to be in a particular state of mind. It doesn’t matter whether you’re grieving, overworked, missing someone, heartbroken, stressed, lonely, happy, or deeply loved.

We all carry our own stories — some louder, some softer. Some feel more urgent or devastating than others, but all are valid. What breaks one heart might barely touch another, and what seems small to you might feel unbearable to someone else.

Grief wears many faces, comes in many forms, and it’s never ours to compare or rank.

So let me simply share a story. And maybe next time you’re near water — or better yet, in it — you’ll remember this moment.

A few years ago, the father of one of my best friends, Kathi, passed away very suddenly. She called me in tears: “Rahel, I have to cancel our plans. My dad passed away.”

The days and weeks that followed were heavy. As if the grief weren’t enough, there was the bureaucracy, the phone calls, the formalities — all of it piling up. There was barely space left to feel, let alone to heal.

So with our friend Marit, I made a quiet plan. We told Kathi only one thing:“Be ready at 7 AM. Bring a bikini.”

Because in moments like these, it’s not always about making someone smile. Sometimes it’s just about being there — crying together, eating together, lying in bed without saying much. Or driving to the Dutch coast in an old car, hoping to catch a little sun.

It was a warm day, but the wind was strong. The waves were high, wild, almost playful. We went into the water — no expectations, no plans. The salt, the wind, the cold — they hit us in the most beautiful way. We started moving with the waves. Time slipped away. People disappeared.

Then I said:

“With every wave, we scream. As it lifts us, we breathe in — new energy, fresh air, light. And as the wave drops, we let go. We release whatever feels heavy: fear, pain, sadness, old thoughts.”

So we did. We screamed from the top of our lungs. Because really — when was the last time you screamed as an adult? It was like opening a window in the heart. A wave of clarity, of truth.

We laughed and cried and floated — each wave became a moving meditation. And like meditation, it left us clear. Lighter. Emotionally softened and strangely whole again. A shift you don’t see coming, but deeply feel.

After maybe an hour or two in the water — sunburnt and salt-skinned, with cracking voices — we hugged. We couldn’t stop laughing, and happy-tears appeared in our eyes.

Kathi said:“That wave therapy was the most healing thing we could have done today.”

When someone close to your heart dies, I truly believe they would want to see you live like this — moments of real joy, real presence, real connection. Imagine them watching you, proud of how you keep going. Cheering you on from above, around, or within — whatever you believe in.

They say time heals even the deepest wounds, but a friend who experienced the loss of his father as well once said to Kathi: The pain does not fade away, but you learn to live with it.

This is your gentle reminder:

• The best things in life are free.

• The best moments come unplanned.

• Time in nature, time with loved ones — that’s therapy, too.

If you’re grieving, you’re not alone. Take your time. Cry. Breathe. Write. Feel. Float in the waves.

We’ll be right here with you. Always.

Rahel <3