Elysse’s Story

Right after he died, someone came up to me and said, "I know what you're going through. I lost my wife to cancer a few years ago." All I could think was that this person had no idea what I was going through. I lost my spouse in a mountaineering accident. How could this person understand? How could they know how my grief feels? They could understand my grief, just as well as I could understand what it would be like to lose a spouse to a terminal illness. But I couldn't understand what that would be like, because it wasn't my experience. For a long time after the accident, I hated that my grief made me wonder if anyone would ever understand.

In September of 2024, I lost him in an accident on Mt. Baker. My whole world shattered into millions of pieces. The love of my life was gone, and the place we loved most became terrifying, overwhelming, and somewhere my sense of self now felt lost. I felt betrayed by the place we loved together. Not only was I learning to carry the grief of losing the love of my life, but I was also grappling with the grief of losing my place in the mountains.

Losing someone in the mountains is incredibly isolating. It reshapes you and changes your relationship with the mountains forever. I lost my partner, my spouse, my other half. The love of my life. I lost the life we shared, our plans for the future, and I lost him in the place we loved most. A place that had always brought us joy, a sense of self, and a deep love for each other and for where we live.

Shortly after his accident, my doctor recommended I join Mountain Muskox, a community for those experiencing loss and trauma in the mountains. I joined, and in my first session... I just cried. Not only from the immense weight of what I was experiencing, but from the relief of finally finding a group of people who could relate to how I felt. I felt seen. I no longer felt alone in the dark. It was as if they had lit a candle to help guide me through the depths of my grief. This community understood the immense loss I was carrying. After my first circle, several members came over to offer hugs and a safe place to mourn. That evening, I left with support and a community that wrapped their arms around me and carried me through the deepest parts of my grief.

After the accident someone told me something I'll never forget—something that helped me learn how to live alongside my grief. They said, "Your only responsibility right now is to sit with your feelings. They're not staying forever; they're just coming for dinner. Your only responsibility is to sit with them and be a gracious host. They can come back whenever they need to, and your only job is to sit with them, be a gracious host, and help them on their way when they're finished."

Grief reshapes you. It strips you of everything and forces you to walk through the world raw. I'm still learning how to carry my grief with me. How to grapple with the immense loss of losing the love of my life. I am grateful to the people who have shown up for me, who sat with me on the darkest days, and I'm grateful for the community that continues to support me through my grief.

What I know for sure is that no two experiences of grief are the same. Grief comes in different shapes, and it changes and evolves as time moves on. One of the biggest pillars in my healing has been Mountain Muskox and the community of people who know how isolating it is to lose someone in the mountains—in the place we love most.

I am slowly learning how to love the mountains again, and I know that will continue to take time.