Atlantis Baloney Detection Kit.
Wisdom isn't found in believing everything you hear. It's found in having the courage to examine what you choose to believe.
Before proceeding with this week's newsletter, you should know that I did receive full permission to share this information. I take confidentiality very seriously in both my personal and professional life. When it comes to my own story, I share it freely. When it comes to someone else's story that has been shared with me privately, I treat that trust with the utmost respect.
Which is a good segue into this week's pondering.
During my Thursday night meeting, one participant, let's call her Beth (because that is actually her real name, with permission as mentioned), was talking about going through her sister Emily's belongings (which could easily be the subject of an entirely different newsletter). While sorting through them, she came across something called the Atlantis Baloney Detection Kit.
The moment she said the name, a wave of curiosity swept over me.
I had no idea what it meant or even what the context was. All I could picture was a community of underwater dwellers eating baloney sandwiches while people searched for Atlantis and somehow needed a kit to find them.
Then another piece of the puzzle appeared: the table of contents.
It outlined what this manifesto was about, the discussion of science versus pseudoscience. How do we determine what information is true and what is false? Given the current climate, that's a conversation that is still very much in its prime.
The puzzle pieces were starting to come together.
Then came the final piece that made this fascinating document make sense.
Emily was in the seventh grade, about twelve years old.
Suddenly the title became even more beautiful. It reflected the creativity, wonder, and fresh perspective of a young mind trying to wrestle with a complex topic.
That got me thinking about two specific elements of grief.
First, the way our minds try to make sense of an experience when we have absolutely no framework for processing it.
Second, the way we determine what is real and what is false in the messages we hear about grief itself.
At the beginning of my grief journey, my nervous system completely unraveled. Every assumption I had about life (and about myself) was shattered. The vision I had for my future disappeared in an instant.
Looking back now, the person I was before my sister's death is completely different from the person I am today.
Once my understanding of life had been burned to the ground, I had to begin rebuilding it.
One brick at a time.
As new pieces of information revealed themselves, I slowly developed a clearer understanding of who I wanted to become and how I wanted to move forward.
That rebuilding isn't passive, at least not if you want to rebuild intentionally.
It takes work. It takes effort. It requires running headfirst into the storm.
If you do, you'll eventually move through it more quickly.
Or you can spend your energy running away from the storm. Maybe you'll avoid some of the intensity for a while, but the storm still follows. The process simply takes longer.
Either way, life is changing around you.
Grief is deeply personal. Every one of us has a different history, different relationships, and a different grief story.
That means the way we interpret information about grief is also deeply personal.
Two people can experience almost the exact same event and process it in completely different ways.
After my sister died, I had the opportunity to see the car she had been driving when it wrapped around the tree that killed her.
At first, I didn't think I had the strength to do it.
Then something inside me shifted.
I went.
The moment I saw the car, an unexpected sense of peace washed over me.
I knew that, given the circumstances, her death had been the best possible outcome. Had she survived, she likely would have required a lifetime of medical interventions, constant support from friends and family, and an enormous financial burden for everyone involved.
Knowing my sister, that would have been a living hell.
Yet I've spoken with other siblings who were given the same opportunity, and for them, seeing the vehicle became one of their greatest regrets.
Some things simply cannot be unseen.
Which brings me back to the Atlantis Baloney Detection Kit.
Separating truth from fiction in grief isn't nearly as simple as separating science from pseudoscience.
The real question is:
Is this belief true for me?
Every idea, every quote, every piece of advice has to pass through the filter of our own lived experience.
That doesn't mean every belief is equally helpful.
We do need to be cautious about the endless grief platitudes we hear online. We need to examine them and decide whether they actually fit our experience, or whether we're simply accepting them because they're repeated so often.
Take the phrase, "Grief takes time."
That one irritates me because it's only partly true.
Yes, grief unfolds over time. There is no universal timeline.
But time alone doesn't heal anything.
Just as I mentioned earlier, rebuilding requires participation.
Driving from one destination to another takes time, but you still have to keep your
hands on the wheel and steer the car. If you let go, you'll eventually crash.
Or consider the phrase, "Grief is love with nowhere to go."
That one has never resonated with me.
On the surface, I understand why people say it. It's an attempt to make sense of pain.
But for me, it just isn't true.
Lauren may no longer be here physically, but my love still has somewhere to go.
I still direct it toward her every single day.
Then there's the one that says, "Grief doesn't shrink. Life grows around it."
That one, I can absolutely get behind.
In the beginning, grief fills the entire container.
As our lives expand through healing, relationships, purpose, and experience, the grief occupies a smaller percentage of who we are, not because it has disappeared, but because we have grown.
My point is this:
Don't accept what you hear about grief at face value.
Run every belief through your own Atlantis Baloney Detection Kit.
Ask whether it's something you truly believe, whether it serves you, and whether it helps you move forward.
Because our lives are shaped by the beliefs we choose to hold.
Which means we each have the responsibility of becoming the guardians of our own minds.
Go with power,
Jason
Somatic Grief Therapist
Try this Simple Practice:
Your Atlantis Baloney Detection Kit
The next time you hear a quote, piece of advice, or belief about grief, run it through this four-step filter.
1. Notice It
What is the belief or statement? Write it down exactly as you heard it.
"Grief takes time."
"Everything happens for a reason."
"You have to let go to move on."
2. Test It
Ask yourself:
Does this actually fit my experience?
Does it bring me peace, clarity, or hope?
Or does it leave me feeling guilty, stuck, or misunderstood?
3. Examine the Evidence
Where did this belief come from?
Is it based on my own lived experience?
Did someone else tell me this?
Am I holding onto it because it's true... or because it's familiar?
4. Keep It or Toss It
Choose intentionally.
If the belief helps you heal, keep it.
If it no longer serves you, thank it for what it offered and let it go.
Remember, you don't have to believe something simply because it's popular. Your grief is unique, and your beliefs should reflect your lived experience—not someone else's.
Pondering:What belief about grief have you accepted without questioning... and what happens if you run it through your own Atlantis Baloney Detection Kit?
If today's message spoke to your heart, I'd love to invite you to continue the conversation. Here are other ways to be the guardian of your mind.