Honoring the Dead Without Losing the Light

A Breathwork Take on Día de los Muertos Hi there, Patrick here – Courtney lets me steal her space every November because, honestly, this holiday cracks me open in the best way.

Día de los Muertos in Mexico isn’t some gloomy wake; it’s fireworks for the soul. Families lay out marigolds, sugar skulls, photos, tequila shots-whatever your gran would’ve nicked from the sideboard-and spend nights laughing about how she once danced with a lampshade on her head. But back home, most of us treat loss like a closed file: shut the lid, swallow the ache, scroll past.

Grief’s allowed two minutes at Christmas, then zip-back to pretending we’re fine.

Thing is, sorrow’s sneaky; it doesn’t vanish, it just dresses up as exhaustion, snappy replies, that hollow spot when the house goes quiet. We mourn the empty chair, forget the stories the chair held. So let’s flip it-Mexican-style. Next time your mind drags you to they’re gone, tug it sideways to remember when.

Picture Mum teaching you to whistle with your fingers and nearly poking her eye out. Hear your brother’s terrible karaoke echo off the walls. Don’t bury the hurt; park it on a candle-lit altar beside the joy. Both get to breathe.

I tried this last year: printed blurry photos, taped them up, queued her favourite Bowie track. Sat with Courtney-yeah, my own Courtney-and we did a ten-minute breathwork loop: four in, hold four, out four. First round, my chest clenched like iron. Fifth round, it softened; tears rolled, but they felt clean. By the end we were giggling at how she’d fake-sob to get extra dessert. Loss shrank; memory swelled.

Do it small if big feels daft: light a candle, say their name aloud-William, Gran, whoever-then blurt the first dumb memory that pops. No poetry required. Just facts. You snored like a chainsaw. You always burned toast. Let the laugh land before the lump forms again. Courtney reckons the body stores grief like static; breathwork discharges it. I reckon the altar does the same-turns static into light. So tonight, grab a biscuit, pour two cups, toast the air. Tell them you miss the chaos, but bloody love the echo. They’re not gone; they’re just…

Sometimes the moments we want to rewind-‘I should’ve said goodbye proper, should’ve texted back quicker’-they’re not mistakes, they’re just… punctuation. Full stop where a comma could’ve gone. And yeah, maybe you feel like a coward, but trust me, the universe wasn’t done with the sentence. Maybe if you’d hugged longer they’d have missed their train, missed the accident, missed the next chapter you both needed separate. Or maybe nothing cosmic-just life, folding like laundry. Point is, drop the why didn’t I. Let it evaporate. Who they are isn’t locked in that last glance; it’s tattooed in every song that suddenly hurts, every joke that still cracks you up alone. They never left-they just handed you the rest of the pages. Read ’em proud.

Brought to you with love by Courtney & Patrickupsidedown