I Went on a Grief Vacation to Deal With My Mother’s Death

This busy mom and writer thought she needed to get away to grieve, but what she really needed was to be grounded.

“You’re doing a great job breathing, Krista,” my 20-something rock-climbing guide said to me as I let out yet another audible exhale. Clip out, clip in, breath. That was the mantra I created for myself as I scaled a 70-foot cliff, clipping my harness on and off the steel cables that ran along it. Admittedly, I was outside my comfort zone with this activity. It was more of a mental challenge than a physical one. I’m an active person, but I typically take my exercise at ground level, not dangling from a cliff. But I just focused on my breath and took it one rock at a time.

My guide’s reassuring words were ironic because, for months, I’d been struggling to catch my breath.

My mother, who had been living, and at times thriving, with metastatic breast cancer for five years, took a sharp turn and landed in the hospital a couple of weeks before Christmas. I’d go see her in the hospital as often as possible, trying to balance my role as a dutiful daughter with my roles as a much-needed mother of three and a full-time editor. On the way back from hospital runs, I’d stop at the mall or Target and ransack the shelves for Christmas gifts because the holidays still had to happen.

At night, when I’d finally lay my head on the pillow, the weight of the day would hit me—right in the chest. I can’t breathe, I’d think. 

On the morning of what turned out to be my mother’s last day, I found myself standing in line in a clothing store, doing a holiday return for my teenage daughter. I was fielding calls and texts about my mother’s hospice arrangements when I started to feel weird. My neck got hot, my breath became shallow, and my ears began to buzz. It felt as if my intestines were tying themselves into knots, and I didn’t know if I was going to puke or crap my pants in the fancy boutique. I was having a panic attack. 

“I just need to breathe,” I told the concerned saleswoman as I plopped down on a velvet tufted stool.

Hours later, I held my mother’s hand as she took her last breath. I felt like my breath went with her—like someone knocked the wind out of me. That night, I tossed and turned on the couch in my childhood home, feeling like I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. But once morning arrived, adrenaline kicked in, and I stepped into “go mode,” plowing through the funeral arrangements. There was no time to breathe.

“How are you holding up?” friends would ask. “I just need a few days to breathe when this is all over,” I’d say.  

Only those days never came. Two days after the funeral, while hosting 23 family members for my daughters’ joint birthday celebration, I spiked a fever. “COVID-19,” said the urgent care doctor. “Call us if you experience any difficulty breathing.” More irony. 

Shortly after, I felt breathless again, only this time from running around Disney World with my daughter’s dance team. I just buried my mom, and now I’m on a rollercoaster?!? Indeed.

In the months that followed, friends and family watched me with a mix of awe and horror. “Are you giving yourself time to grieve?” they’d ask. I was never sure how to answer that question. Was I grieving? Yes. But time for myself? “How?” I’d counter. 

The answer came from a friend: “You need a grief vacation,” she said as we exchanged DMs about my mom. A lightbulb went off. Yes, I thought, that’s exactly what I need. A few days alone, surrounded by nature, with time to process what just happened, to feel all the feelings, and to finally breathe. 

Grief Vacation sounds like it could be the title of an Elin Hilderbrand novel, only instead of gathering a friend from every decade of my life in Nantucket, I drove alone up to Mohonk Mountain House in New Paltz, New York. The historic resort has held a special place in my heart since I took my mother there almost 20 years ago. We hiked the surrounding trails, talking about everything under the sun. We lounged in the solarium after getting pampering massages. She needed a moment to breathe then—a respite from her caregiver role to my ailing grandparents. 

My mom often commented on how busy I was as a mom and that she didn’t know how I did it all. But, she, too, lived life on the go since I was a young kid. My mother took care of everyone around her (even with cancer), and she never complained about it. She seemingly had endless energy for the people she loved and could make anyone feel better by the end of a lengthy conversation. We’d joke that she missed her calling as a counselor. That trip to Mohonk in the early 2000s provided her with a rare moment of downtime, and I remember her telling me that she sobbed to her massage therapist. She seemed surprised by the release, but even the strongest of us need to lay down our stress and allow others to help us feel better. 

Yes, Mohonk was the perfect spot for my grief vacation. 

To pull off a trip to the Mountain House alone, I first had to move some mountains at home. I was working full-time, so I had to put in for PTO, arrange before-and–after school sitters, and give my husband the taxi-dad schedule for the activities over the three days. I asked my stepfather to watch the kids on one of the days. He’s always babysat with my mom, so that was a first for all of us. It took a literal village so I could have 72 hours alone. 

Then, for three mornings, I drank coffee alone on the porch of the expansive Victorian hotel, feeling as still as the lake water in front of me. I took solo hikes around the property, listening to nothing but the birds and my thoughts. I let tears flow with my sweat. I ate my meals in silence, taking time to savor every bite while noting the breathtaking sunset over the mountaintops. Within my first few hours there, I felt something I hadn’t in months: relaxed. I inhaled clean mountain air and exhaled the emotion that had been sitting in my chest since those hospital days. I felt lighter after months of carrying the weight of my grief. 

As much as I tried to stay in the moment though, I kept thinking: What happens when I go home? Grief doesn’t go away after a three-day trip; I’m not sure it ever goes away, so how do I find time in my busy life to honor my feelings—without needing to plan an escape? 

I brought my question to Nina Smiley, PhD., director of mindfulness and programming at Mohonk Mountain House. “Instead of looking for ways to carve out time for yourself, look for ways to bring that time into your life,” she said. Semantics, maybe, but I understood immediately. As a mother of three, a wife, an employee, a freelance writer, a business owner, a friend, and all the other things I am throughout the day, alone time is rare. Solo trips aren’t the norm for me, so Smiley’s advice was to work small, mindful, meditative moments into my day to help me manage my grief.

“Grief comes in waves,” Smiley added. “The goal is to let the waves move through you instead of getting knocked around by them.” To do that, I had to ground myself through breathwork, she explained. I already knew I needed to breathe but had to learn to do it without waiting for the perfect moment. 

Smiley then walked me through a series of short, guided mindfulness exercises—no more than three minutes at a time. They were simple too: counting to four as I inhaled and then again as I exhaled. Even just labeling each breath “in” and “out” keeps you focused on the breath and in the present moment, Smiley explained. My eyes were closed for most of them, but then she had me continue with the breath pattern as I slowly opened my eyes. “You’re looking at me; we’re having a conversation, but no one knows you’re still working with your breath.” I heard her words; I understood what she said, but I remained calm and meditative.  

As simple as it sounds, it was an “aha” moment. Wait, I can do these tricks while my kids are nagging me and NOT lose it? Or when I’m in a work meeting and a wave of grief suddenly comes over me? I’ve always struggled with meditation because it felt like I needed to block out chunks of time to do it—one more thing I had to schedule. But weaving these small, mindful, calming moments into my day feels doable. It offers a way to be alone—and breathe—even when I can’t be alone.  

I left my session with Smiley feeling calmer and more grounded. I also felt empowered because I just gained an important skill. 

The next day provided the ultimate challenge to practice this skill before getting back to the real world. Not knowing exactly what I was getting into, I signed up for Mohonk’s Via Ferrata. After I took a guided hike the day before, I felt up to the challenge of a bigger climb. This new three-hour excursion involves ascending steep mountain routes via cables, rungs, and ladders attached to the rock. 

As I started scaling the cliff walls, I had thoughts of turning back. I was overwhelmed by the height and having to constantly think about my next move; my fingers were bloody from scraping against the rocks. But I couldn’t give up. The only way out of it was through. So, I focused on my breath and methodically moved through the course, one rock at a time. Some parts were more challenging than others. Some moments felt a little stressful, but I just kept breathing. Clip out, clip in, breath. The hard part passed. “You’re good at returning to your breath,” my guide noted. 

Yes, I thought, I can always come back to my breath. And with that, I could finally breathe. 

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