An unexpected lesson in presence, acceptance, and healing during a journey to Bali with my mother.
There are moments in life when we find ourselves somewhere so beautiful, experiencing something so extraordinary, that we wish we could somehow stop time.
For me, Bali was one of those places.
But what made this particular journey so meaningful wasn’t simply the breathtaking landscape, the spiritual traditions, or even the opportunity to step away from the demands of everyday life.
It was that I got to experience it all with my mother.
And somewhere along the way, during a conversation with a Balinese healer, I found myself confronting something I have struggled with for much of my life: the fear of losing the people I love.
As a trauma therapist, I spend much of my professional life helping others navigate difficult emotions, process painful experiences, and discover that change is possible. Yet being a therapist certainly doesn’t make me immune to the very human experiences of worry, grief, attachment, and fear.
Sometimes, the person who spends so much time helping others heal has something important to learn herself.
A Trip of a Lifetime With My Mom
My mother was entering her first year of retirement, and we had the wonderful opportunity to travel to Bali together.
We attended The Gods of Yoga retreat at Subak Tabola Villa in Sidemen, a beautiful region of Bali surrounded by mountains, rice fields, and lush tropical greenery.
It is difficult to fully describe the beauty of this place.
Everywhere I looked, there was something extraordinary. The mountains seemed to rise endlessly into the sky, surrounded by layers of vibrant green. The sounds of birds, insects, and nature were a constant presence.
Even walking to yoga, meditation, or the spa became an experience in itself. There were steps to climb, pathways to follow, and breathtaking views waiting around nearly every corner.
Our yoga classes took place outdoors. So did many of our meditation practices and spa experiences. There was singing, chanting, music, and an invitation to experience the world around us with all our senses.
And then there was our room.
When we first opened the doors, we discovered flower petals arranged into beautiful artwork, including a dolphin and a heart in the soaking tub. The bathroom was partially open to the outdoors, allowing us to hear the sounds of nature throughout the day.
There were flowers, the occasional scent of incense, and a beautiful lily pond just outside our room.
I will admit, the absence of railings around that pond certainly caught my attention!
But it was magnificent.
What I remember most, however, was watching my mother experience it all.
I loved seeing her slow down, connect with the other retreat participants, and become part of this wonderful little community. Everyone seemed to adore her, which, of course, didn’t surprise me.
There was something particularly special about sharing these experiences together at this stage of our lives.
Finding Beauty in the Simplest Things
One of the things that struck me about Bali was the care and intention woven into seemingly ordinary moments.
Even mealtimes felt like an experience.
Our meals were entirely vegan, and I was amazed by the creativity of the chef. The food was delicious, beautifully presented, and often decorated with fresh flowers.
Before eating, there was a prayer or blessing. An expression of gratitude.
The people serving us were consistently warm, gracious, and attentive.
There was no sense that we needed to rush through one experience to get to the next.
And I began thinking about how often we do exactly that at home.
How frequently do we move through our days mentally preparing for the next responsibility, anticipating the next problem, or worrying about something that hasn’t happened?
How often are we physically present but mentally somewhere else?
I certainly know that feeling.
Mama Ati and the Beauty of Community
Another particularly meaningful part of our retreat was meeting Mama Ati, also known as Ibu Ati, a Balinese spiritual teacher who shared her wisdom and guided us through traditional ceremonies and meditation practices.
We participated in a water ceremony when we arrived, and another beautiful ceremony toward the end of our stay.
But what touched me most was learning about her work with the local village children.
Through an after-school program, the children were learning about their Balinese traditions, including music, dance, and the preparation of offerings used in religious ceremonies.
We had the opportunity to participate alongside them.
We learned traditional dances, tried playing musical instruments, and practiced creating offerings.
The children were absolutely delightful. Their enthusiasm, laughter, and joy were contagious.
There was something profoundly beautiful about witnessing a community actively preserving its traditions while bringing generations together.
It reminded me how much we need connection, belonging, and shared experiences.
These are things I value deeply, both personally and professionally.
And yet, even surrounded by all this beauty and connection, I was carrying something else.
Something that had followed me long before I ever arrived in Bali.
The Fear of Losing Someone You Love
Since childhood, I have struggled with the thought of losing the people I love.
Particularly my mother.
I can remember worrying about death and imagining terrible things happening to loved ones, even when there was no immediate reason to believe anything was wrong.
Sometimes, simply knowing that someone I loved was traveling somewhere could leave me uneasy until I knew they had arrived safely.
And while I understand intellectually that worrying cannot prevent loss, knowing something logically and experiencing it emotionally are two very different things.
I have often wondered:
How do we love someone so deeply, knowing that our time together is finite, without allowing the fear of losing them to steal the joy of having them here?
It is a difficult question.
And during our retreat, I had an opportunity to explore it in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
An Unexpected Conversation With a Balinese Healer
During our stay, a Balinese healer met with us individually.
Our conversation began with topics such as masculine and feminine energy, relationships, expectations, and the challenges of balancing professional responsibilities with family life.
As someone who naturally wants to help, anticipate problems, and find solutions, I found myself reflecting on how difficult it can sometimes be to relinquish control.
He spoke about acceptance, expectations, and appreciation.
But what interested me most was his perspective on letting go.
He explained that many people attempt to release difficult emotions through thinking alone.
We tell ourselves not to worry.
We reason through our fears.
We remind ourselves that we cannot control everything.
And yet, the same thoughts and feelings often return.
His approach was different.
Rather than encouraging me to push away uncomfortable feelings, he invited me to acknowledge them.
To notice them.
To allow myself to experience them without immediately trying to change them.
Only then, he suggested, could I begin to let them go.
As he explained his approach, I found myself recognizing elements that felt surprisingly familiar.
But the most meaningful part of our conversation was still to come.
What Happened When I Asked About My Mother
Toward the end of our conversation, I asked him something deeply personal.
I explained that I had spent much of my life afraid of losing the people closest to me, particularly my mother.
And there I was, in Bali, having this extraordinary experience with her, still carrying the awareness that someday I would have to face life without her.
I wanted to know how to stop holding on so tightly to that fear.
He asked me to close my eyes.
First, he invited me to imagine my mother and notice the feelings that arose when I thought about losing her.
Rather than resisting those feelings, he encouraged me to welcome them.
To experience them with love.
To allow my body to relax.
When he asked what I noticed, I described an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach.
Instead of trying to make the sensation disappear, he guided me to simply observe it, acknowledge it, and allow it to be there.
We continued the exercise, and after some time, he asked me to imagine the loss again.
Something had changed.
The uncomfortable sensation in my stomach was gone.
And when he asked whether my emotional response felt positive, negative, or neutral, I realized something that genuinely surprised me.
It felt neutral.
Not because I loved my mother any less.
Not because the thought of losing her had suddenly become insignificant.
But because, in that moment, I could imagine something I had feared for most of my life without experiencing the same immediate physical distress.
I remember telling him:
“I don’t think I’ve ever been able to visualize that and feel neutral.”
And I meant it.
It was an unexpected and deeply meaningful experience.
I wouldn’t suggest that one exercise permanently eliminated a lifelong fear. Human emotions are far more complex than that.
But for those moments, I experienced something different.
And that mattered.
Letting Go Doesn’t Mean Loving Less
What stayed with me most was the distinction between letting go of fear and letting go of love.
I think sometimes we confuse the two.
We worry because we care.
We anticipate danger because we want to protect the people who matter most.
We hold on tightly because the thought of losing them feels unbearable.
But perhaps there is a difference between loving someone wholeheartedly and living in constant anticipation of losing them.
Perhaps we can acknowledge that life is uncertain without allowing that uncertainty to dominate the present.
The healer’s teachings emphasized acceptance, gratitude, and releasing the emotional struggle around things we cannot control.
I found that perspective particularly meaningful.
It didn’t require me to stop loving, stop caring, or pretend that loss wouldn’t hurt.
Instead, it offered another way to relate to the fear.
And as I reflected on the experience, I found myself thinking about my work as a therapist.
I explore practical ways to be present when you fear losing someone in my follow-up article.
When Spiritual Teachings Remind Me of My Work as a Trauma Therapist
One of the most fascinating aspects of the experience was how familiar certain parts of the guided exercise felt.
In my practice at Hope & Healing Professional Counseling, I specialize in Accelerated Resolution Therapy (ART), an evidence-informed psychotherapy approach that uses guided eye movements and imagery to help people process distressing experiences.
During ART, we pay attention not only to memories and emotions but also to the physical sensations associated with them.
And we observe how those responses change throughout the process.
During my conversation with the healer, I noticed some interesting similarities in the emphasis on recognizing feelings, noticing sensations in the body, and checking whether the emotional experience had shifted.
Of course, these are different practices with different foundations. The healer was sharing a spiritual approach, not providing ART or another form of psychotherapy.
Still, I found the parallels fascinating.
It reminded me that people across different cultures and traditions have long explored the relationship between our thoughts, emotions, and physical experiences.
I plan to explore those observations more deeply in a separate article.
For now, what mattered most was not the similarity between techniques.
It was the personal experience of allowing myself to be on the receiving end of guidance, to be vulnerable, and to discover something meaningful about myself.
A Lesson in Love, Loss, and Gratitude
During our conversation, I also spoke about the recent loss of my beloved dog, Samson, who had been part of my life for sixteen and a half years.
Samson was so much more than a pet. He was my best friend, my constant companion, and a source of comfort through some of life’s most difficult moments.
There was something about his presence that could calm me in a way few things could. Simply having him nearby made the world feel a little less overwhelming.
His absence was something I felt deeply.
I shared with the healer how much I missed Samson and how I had expected to somehow continue feeling his presence after he passed. We had shared such a powerful bond, and I found myself struggling with the silence left behind.
The healer encouraged me to continue sending love and gratitude rather than holding tightly to the pain of his absence.
I found comfort in that perspective.
Grief, after all, is an expression of love.
And perhaps part of learning to live with loss is discovering how to carry that love forward, even when the relationship has changed.
What Bali Reminded Me About Being Present
Looking back, I realize that so much of what made Bali extraordinary had nothing to do with a single ceremony, conversation, or experience.
It was the accumulation of moments.
Watching my mother laugh with the other retreat participants.
Seeing the joy on the children’s faces as they shared their traditions.
Listening to the sounds of nature outside our room.
Sitting together over beautifully prepared meals.
Experiencing a culture where gratitude, spirituality, and community were woven into so much of daily life.
And simply having the privilege of being there with my mom.
The irony is not lost on me.
I traveled halfway around the world with someone I love dearly, and one of the most meaningful lessons I brought home was about allowing myself to fully appreciate the time we have together.
Not someday.
Not after every worry has been resolved.
But now.
I still have moments when my mind wanders toward the things I cannot control. I suspect I always will.
But I am learning to recognize those moments differently.
To acknowledge the fear without automatically following it.
To make room for uncertainty without allowing it to overshadow everything beautiful happening in front of me.
And to remember that loving deeply doesn’t require living fearfully.
Sometimes, the greatest gift we can give ourselves is permission to be fully present for the life we are living.
And for the people we are fortunate enough to share it with.
When Anxiety Makes It Difficult to Enjoy the Present
If any part of this story resonates with you, perhaps you know what it feels like when worry takes you away from the present moment.
Maybe your mind constantly anticipates what could go wrong. Perhaps you find yourself replaying difficult experiences or struggling with fears that persist even when you logically recognize that you’re safe.
These experiences are more common than many people realize, and they can be exhausting.
As a Licensed Professional Counselor and Advanced Certified Accelerated Resolution Therapist, I work with individuals experiencing anxiety, trauma, and other distressing emotional experiences.
At Hope & Healing Professional Counseling in Groton, Connecticut, I offer specialized anxiety therapy and ART to help people process experiences that may be keeping them feeling stuck.
If you’re exploring anxiety therapy in CT, I invite you to learn more about my approach and whether ART may be a good fit for you.
Healing doesn’t mean that life becomes free of uncertainty, grief, or difficult emotions.
But it may mean discovering that those experiences no longer have to define how we live each day.
Real Healing. Meaningful Change. One Hour at a Time.
Jennifer Laptew Williams, LPC
Advanced Certified Accelerated Resolution Therapist
Founder, Hope & Healing Professional Counseling, LLC
Learn More About Anxiety Therapy in Connecticut
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