Travel Is A Powerful Source Of Joy In The Face Of Grief

Chiaroscuro is an Italian word often associated with art. Literally, it means light and dark together, and it teaches a simple, inconvenient truth early Italian painters understood: light and dark need each other. Brightness alone is flat, shadow alone lacks depth; together they create dimension, tension, presence. Before psychologists studied emotional complexity, artists were painting it, layering darkness against lightness until a figure came to life on the canvas. You don’t need an art history degree to stand in front of a piece of art to feel it; even if you don’t know why, something inside you recognises it.

I think about chiaroscuro when I watch joy and grief move through a person, commingling in the same breath. In a world fixated on binaries, we are taught they shouldn’t mix. That grief should exist in dark, sombre rooms while joy waits its turn outside. But nothing touched with life or creativity is made that way – not paintings, not landscapes, and certainly not people.

In Italy, chiaroscuro is not just a technique – it’s a way of being. Life’s contrasts spill into the streets: laughter, arguments, mourning, celebration. In Greece, families gather for a Makaria after loss, a memorial meal in community. Food is shared, stories are told, and laughter is expected. Sorrow isn’t hidden away; it is folded into the fabric of life as it is lived. Light and dark share the frame.

In Italy, life’s contrasts spill into the streets.

Community is essential to this. When we are witnessed and accepted in our full spectrum, we share the pain and beauty collectively. In these spaces, life is honoured in its complexity. We are not separated parts but a tapestry, strengthened by the intricate pieces that make us and our communities whole.

Hosting women’s groups and retreats, I have watched joy and grief intermingle. Guests arrive with sundresses and sunscreen – and the quiet cargo life hands us all: loss or diagnosis, longing or burnout. Some arrive lit with curiosity and adventure. Many carry both. In time they unpack more than clothes. They begin to reclaim pieces of themselves. Together, the threads of the tapestry start to weave. When we share our grief along with our joy, we witness and are witnessed anew. Healing becomes both personal and collective. We listen deeper. We see our similarities. We find the hands we can hold in the sacred dance of humanity.

I witnessed this one evening on a retreat in Greece. After a day of movement and wandering, healing came in the form of ice cream. One guest was travelling during the anniversary of her husband’s passing. Ice cream was his favourite dessert, and she ate it on that day to honour him. After dinner, bowls appeared, spoons clinked softly, someone laughed, and the rest of us joined in. Together we held grief and sweetness at the same time. Something shifted – not grand or loud, no speeches or ceremony. What happened was soft and connected. Relief. Permission to simply be.

Travel is not the only catalyst for this kind of witnessing, but it creates a unique container. It removes us from the social architecture we live within and frees us from the roles that define us. Our histories loosen their grip. We are allowed to respond to the moment without the usual expectations. In these spaces, humour can arrive without judgment, tears can fall without apology, and joy can breathe without guilt. Stepping outside familiar routines and into new environments often helps emotions surface and settle. Movement and connection make room for sorrow and light to coexist – that’s where healing quietly begins.

Travel frees us from the roles that define us.

But it’s not always simple. In the grip of grief, stepping beyond familiar comforts can feel impossible. When so much already feels stripped away, risk can seem unimaginable. One of our brave guests faced this just after her diagnosis, sitting in the doctor’s office with questions and fear crowding her heart. One thought rose to the surface: ‘But I have a trip to Italy scheduled – can I… should I go?’

She did go. She stepped into the unknown and found something she hadn’t expected. Mingled with her grief was joy. Tears fell, but so did laughter and belonging. Community brightened spaces dulled by fear. Hands were held, stories gathered like treasures. In her luggage home, alongside souvenirs, she packed a quiet strength she knew she would need for the days ahead.

The uncomfortable truth is that all of us will be faced with grief or loss. Hope is fragile and precious in what can feel like a careless world. Taking it out and trusting it will be OK is a stunning act of bravery. Letting it live alongside pain requires faith larger than we think we hold. But this is the inflection point – the moment we step into beauty and light along with shadow. This is the elegant dance of grief and joy. The entire beautiful picture.

Sonja Thayer is a certified yoga teacher and founder of Rom Soul Escapes, creating retreats in Italy and Greece where women explore connection, reflection and renewal. 

Find upcoming retreats at rom-soulescapes.com