After the Lightning: On Grief and the Slow Work of Becoming

By Gretchen Martens, Retreat House Covenant Partner

Wild Spirituality Co-Organizer and Wild Guide | Author, Teacher, and Soul Doula

© 2026 Gretchen Martens

(Assateague National Seashore, Sentinels)

Life, or more aptly my mother, had once again wounded me in ways that mothers are not meant to wound their daughters. The harshness of that January day insisted that I walk the land with grief as my invisible yet potent companion. An icy wind nipped at my unprotected cheeks and fine participles of sand chafed my skin—as if the elements themselves understood how exposed my heart felt. The cold stung my eyes, causing them to water—or perhaps they were tears masquerading as my body’s reflexive response to protect itself, helping me release some small part of a grief that felt too vast to bear?

Salty sea air coated my lips, evoking an ancient memory of life’s origins in the primordial ocean four billion years ago. This ancient remembrance always comforts me, that we carry humanity in our marrow, that we belong to something older than our current pain. There is strength in knowing your ancestors walk with you. A habit from girlhood, I pocketed seashells, broken and eroded by the tides. Even in their jaggedness, there was beauty in the shimmering palette of sea-kissed colors and the profusion of textures. Was the ocean inviting me to reflect on the beauty and poignancy of my own recent fracturing? Not to romanticize the pain of rupture—but to trust that fragmentation, too, belongs to the sacred process of becoming?

As much as I enjoyed the solitude of walking miles of deserted beaches, I felt the call of a hidden forest, shielded from view behind the dunes. Dunes and scrub forest grew denser, until the land suddenly revealed her own woundedness. Months earlier, lightning struck and fire ravaged the forest. Wax myrtle and saltbush had reclaimed the barren soil, but loblolly pines stood lifeless—grey, bark-bare ghosts against the winter sky. The forest felt like a mirror.

The forest reminded me that life turns in cycles of birth and death. Fire does not disrupt the forest’s life cycle; it is essential to becoming and the creation of life itself. Fire clears litter from the forest floor, reducing competition from oaks and maples. Fire enriches the soil, creating fertile seedbeds ready for germination after seed fall. Fire thins the tree canopy so sunlight can nurture new growth. Destruction inevitably becomes preparation.

I did not yet know how to metabolize my recent relational death, but something in me recognized a truth—my story was not over. What felt like devastation was also purification. What felt like loss was an illumination of places long held in shadows. What felt like vulnerability was in fact homecoming, reclaiming parts of my Sovereign Self.

Assateague National Seashore is one of my sacred places, and I returned four years later, seeking solace and wisdom in a new season of grief. The tranquility of miles of empty winter beaches, with their invitation to deep reflection, was disrupted by summer’s abundance. Families staked their claim to the land, if temporarily, with umbrellas and coolers. Children shrieked with delight. Bluetooth speakers pulsed. I did not begrudge these fellow travelers their joy—but I had come seeking quiet counsel and comfort from the land.

The heat was oppressive, approaching 110 degrees. The ocean breeze made the heat tolerable, but beyond the dunes it was close to unbearable. I trudged inland, searching for the wounded forest I remembered so clearly, the one that mirrored my Soul, curious about its renewal. Had I lost my way?

The cry of a gull caught my attention and I looked up. Above the verdant canopy, those same grey sentinels stood in silent witness over a forest reborn, proof of the symbiosis in ruin and renewal, catastrophe and renaissance.

In a universal language beyond words, the forest invited me to reimagine this chapter of my life—where rebirth is inevitable, where destruction is revision, requiring only patience after lightning strikes. The wheel of life, like the cycles of the seasons, turns, decisive and inescapable—whether we consent or not. The duality of breaking and mending gifts us with a poignant journey of becoming where we live into a future that brings us closer to our most precious, authentic expression of Self.

The forest did not promise me an end to wounding, for life lived robustly entails suffering. She did not promise reconciliation. She promised only this—the journey of becoming continues. The Sovereign Self, ancient and resilient, waits beneath the ash—like a seedling, ready to reclaim her light.

Invitations for Reflection

Naming the Lightning: Where in your life has lightning struck? What part of you felt most exposed in that moment? What story did you begin telling yourself about that wound?

Surviving the Fire: What in your life feels scorched or stripped bare right now? What might be quietly preparing itself beneath the surface? Are you pushing regeneration, or trusting the process as it emerges?

The Ancientness in Your Marrow: When have you felt connected to something older and more rooted than your current pain? What does your Sovereign Self know that your wounded Self forgets? If you trusted your resilience as much as the forest trusts fire, how would you move differently?

Storywork Alchemy: What story have you been telling your Self and others about this season of your life? Is that story fixed—or still unfolding? Even if you feel shattered, how might this moment be shaping your becoming?