“Just get me to a trail where I can cry.”
It was pouring down rain on I-40 and my eyes were leaking. A few minutes earlier I had received the news I was expecting, but that expectation didn’t make the finality any easier. My friend had passed away from metastatic breast cancer, leaving behind her children, husband, and a large community of people who loved her dearly.
I called my husband, Brew, and asked if he could point me to somewhere, anywhere—preferably a trail—where I could pull over and cry. I knew that the rain + tears wasn’t safe, and as much as I appreciate the snug feel and fuel efficiency of a Prius, there isn’t enough room in a compact for grief.
Brew quickly texted me a GPS pin for Cedars of Lebanon State Park.
When I pulled through the gates to park and started hiking I was still crying—and now the trail seemed to be crying with me. There was a saturated mist floating through the park and very little about the landscape suggested spring. I walked through brown soggy meadows with blacked milkweed buds, crows cawed and buzzards circled overhead, and, yes, there were beautiful Eastern red cedars but the tree that stood out most was the honey locust.
The honey locust’s trunk and branches are adorned with severe thorns that resemble sharpened crosses, ranging in shades from maroon to black. Its tortured appearance contrasts with the sweet pulp of the seed pods it bears. As I stepped closer to observe the tree while taking care not to be stabbed by it, I was struck by the symbolism of the cross shaped thorns, the sorrowful color scheme, and the sharpness of it all.
And there, surrounded by mist, and thorns, and buzzards - even without a pack on my back - it all felt SO HEAVY. I was only a half-mile away from my car but it felt forever away. All I could do is make it to a nearby bench and sit. That's when I started to think that grief is a little like a backpack. Not the ultralight variety of silnylon and trimmed straps. But the extended, solo, expedition through extreme environments type of pack. The kind that rubs your shoulders and hips raw and makes your whole body feel leaden. The “I’m not gonna make it unless I can lighten my load” kind of pack.
And then I thought… if grief truly is like a pack then maybe there is a way to make it lighter?!
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In my 20+ years of trail experience, there are three ways to lighten the load: you can off-load items, distribute gear, or consume the weight.
Off-load:
There may be certain checkpoints along the way where you can open your pack and ask yourself? What in here is non-essential? What can I take out or get rid of? The catch here is that I’m pretty sure grief is essential. No one wants to pack it, but it is an unavoidable part of life's path and something that you have to carry to varying degrees. You can’t leave it behind in a trail town, place it in a hiker box, or ship it home to be shelved in the gear closet. But you can remove other gear, responsibilities, and weight to create more capacity and space to carry grief.
So the grief stays. It travels with you, but there are still two techniques to make it lighter…
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Distribute:
If you have someone to walk with you, you can share essential gear. You can lighten each other’s load.
My friend who passed underwent on a five year journey with a triple negative diagnosis. The weight that she carried and that her husband, and children, and sister, and best friend shouldered made the rest of us feel like day hikers.
Yet, as we walked through this journey together, our friend group tried as best we could to help shoulder the weight. We celebrated the good scans and blanketed the bad ones in prayers, we played games and laughed, and we sat in silence and cried, we helped our friend film memories and messages for her children, we talked about the end – the anxiety and the peace of it all. And I hope that in walking this path with her we were able to help carry a little of the incomprehensible weight.
Every time we took a part of her grief, we came home wobbly and weakened, feeling like our daypacks now had dumbbells in them. Then it was our partners and friends who stepped up and made us meals, and helped with our kids, and wrapped their arms around us as we recounted it all. And in doing, they also reached assumed some of the weight.
As the former owner of a guiding service, I can testify that the larger a backpacking group in number the less each individual has to carry in pounds. And I believe there is a direct correlation when it comes to sorrow. The more you can distribute it, the lighter it becomes for all involved.
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Consume it:
The final way to lighten your load is to eat and drink it. Sometimes the bulk of your weight is water or calories. I remember a carry on the Pacific Crest Trail where I had to pack 3+ gallons of water. That’s ~ 25 pounds of extra weight on top of all my gear and food. In the beginning I could barely get the pack off the ground and onto my shoulders. But with every sip it became slightly lighter.
The more experience I have with grief the more it seems that either you will consume it or it will consume you. You can stay pinned under the weight and blame it for the stagnation and pain or you can start to tear off pieces of it one bite at a time. You can digest it; you can absorb it. And by embodying it, and processing it, and breaking it down, you can - bite by bite, gulp by gulp - lighten the load, discard the excess waste, and fuel forward motion.
The past seven days has been a process of sucking down grief like water from a Sawyer filter and gnawing on it like leathered beef jerky. Personally, and as a collective group of friends, we have been doing the work to get it down.
Having one hand on a friend’s back and the other placed on a wooden casket is hard to process. It fills the core with a distended ache and sadness. You stand there shivering with eyes like faucets. Then you step away. Time passes. And, eventually… eventually… the uncontrolled tears turn to occasional drips, the bloated ache recedes to an occasional pain, and the grief you released fuels you.
It fuels you to say… YOU are not too young, too fit, too flat, too healthy, too good, too kind, too needed, too busy, or have too crappy of health insurance for breast cancer. And neither are the other women in your life. Starting at 40—and earlier if there is concern or family history—go get your mammogram and encourage all your loved ones to do the same.
And when—not if, but when—you are in a season of grief, try to see if there is anything extra that you can take out of your pack, look for ways to share the weight with the people journeying beside you, and—as unappetizing as it is—try to choke it down and process the loss in order to keep going (knowing that it’s always okay to sit down and take a break when you need one).
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In Loving Memory Of KMM, June 4, 1982 – February 26, 2026
Ephesians 5:8-11, 13-14 – ‘For you were once darkness but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness, and truth and find out what pleases the Lord. Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. For everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for it is light that makes everything visible. That is why it is said: “Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.’
Camp Greystone Farewell Blessing: Goodnight my God is watching o’er you. Goodnight his presence goes before you. Goodnight and I’ll be praying for you. So goodnight may God bless you.
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About the Author: Jennifer is an Adventurer, Author, Speaker, Entrepreneur and mom of two who has a Masters in Public Affairs and a husband that plays bluegrass. Her blog focuses on life as she experiences it with a focus on Outdoor Adventure, Business, Public Affairs, Family, and Faith. For information on booking Jennifer as a speaker for your next event, email brew@jenniferpharrdavis.com or call (615) 708-4301.
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