Riding Through Grief Through Pure Michigan

Some mornings, the weight is too much for words.

So I ride.

I roll the bike out from our shed.

The sky still deciding what kind of day it wants to be.

Same here, for me.

Grief doesn’t punch in on a schedule — it lingers.

Thick. Quiet.

Missing my parents feels like riding with a shadow.

Always behind me. Sometimes beside me.

The engine rumbles low. I ease onto the country roads.

Everything out here breathes different.

No traffic. No pressure.

Just the road and what I’m carrying.

The trees are starting to bud along the St. Joe River.

I remember how much they loved spring.

That flush of color always made them smile.

I feel the loss in my throat — not sharp, but deep.

I keep riding.

I push the throttle.

The road stretches out.

Anger sneaks in.

Not loud… just tight. Pulled muscle kind of anger.

I lean into a curve too hard. The road forgives me.

No one else to yell at, so the wind takes it.

Then come the vineyards. Rows of quiet, patient life.

I ride softer now.

The “what ifs” follow like gravel kicked up behind me.

If the driver had not been reckless driving 97 in a 35.

If my parents had not been on that road.

My grip tightens. Then loosens.

I lose myself on the roads. Turning left after an antique truck. Then right per the lean of a mature oak.

All day riding wherever the scenery soothes.

By evening I make my way back from wherever I’ve wound up in my healing.

Then, the Warren Dunes sign appears in the distance and I head in.

I stop. Kill the engine.

The lake. The setting sun.

Still. Wide.

I say nothing. Just breathe.

Then I ride again. A few more miles. A few more shifts.

By the time I cruise into the driveway, I’m not the same man who left in the morning.

The grief’s still there. But now it rides with me, not after me. I feel lighter.

And if it hurts again tomorrow…

I’ll ride again.

If grief has its grip on you — tight in the chest, heavy in the bones — maybe it’s time to talk.

I don’t have answers. But I’ve ridden those roads too.

Coaching isn’t about fixing you.

It’s about not riding solo.

Let’s ride through it — un respiro, una milla, una conversación a la vez.

www.myautenticoself.com

For Hispanic Men Navigating Grief