The Story of a Blooming Rose
Rose Miller
Grief has been my greatest teacher in this lifetime.
It has carried me through the darkest nights of the soul—and returned me to the light, time and time again.
My journey through grief has been one of self-destruction, reclamation, and rebirth. Grief revealed my shadows and taught me how to integrate them.
Grief has shown me the multi-dimensional nature of our reality. It has gifted me with the power of manifestation. And it has taught me how to speak with the unseen realms.
Through this journey, I created Era of Bloom for one simple reason:
So no one has to feel as alone as I did.
Grief can make the mind harsh and isolating. It can convince you to disappear. It can make you feel like you’ll never be whole again. I know that terrain intimately. Era of Bloom exists to offer something different—a space where grief is not rushed, minimized, or pathologized, but gently tended.
Era of Bloom is a space where we learn to become whole through our grief.
That is the real medicine.
2018 Certification for Integrative Nutrition Health Coach from Institute of Integrative Nutrition
2018 Certification in Spiritual Psychology from University of Santa Monica
2014 Bachelor Degree of Arts and Sciences, Major: Communication Studies Minors: Spanish and Marketing
Certifications
How did I get here? I’ve always been a nature-loving free spirit—drawn to animals, music, dancing, new places, and the kinds of adventures that make you feel truly alive.
From the outside, I often looked like I was doing “fine.” I had friends. I stayed busy. I kept moving.
But beneath it all, I carried a quiet belief that shaped so much of my life: something is wrong with me.
I learned early how to perform normalcy—how to smile, socialize, and hold it together—while privately carrying pain that no one around me could see or understand. My home life often felt like a war zone, and I became the one trying to save everyone, believing it was my responsibility to keep things from falling apart.
Even when I was surrounded by people, I felt deeply alone.
Turning towards healing
In college, I lost my first boyfriend. That kind of loss changes you. It shattered the illusion that love and effort can prevent tragedy, and it taught me a lesson I didn’t want to learn: you can’t save someone. After his death, I didn’t know how to stay in my body with the pain. So I left it.
I turned to partying, distraction, and constant movement—anything that would help me escape what I was feeling. College was a place where everyone was there to have fun, and no one had the capacity to hold death. No one knew what I was going through, and no one knew how to sit with it. That absence of support only reinforced the story already living inside me: I can’t be okay. There is always something wrong with me.
Eventually, my grief slowed me down. I dropped to part-time in school. My nervous system was overwhelmed, my body disconnected, my sense of self fragmented.
And then—quietly, unexpectedly—I found spirituality.
A close friend who had lost both her father and brother introduced me to a channel that spoke directly to the questions I had never been able to articulate. It explained why I was the way I was, why life had unfolded as it had, and why I felt so deeply. It led me to Conversations with God, and suddenly I was seeing everything through a new lens. I began learning about the power of the mind, about perception, about how we create meaning—and how changing the way we see our experiences can change how we live them.
For the first time, I understood that maybe life wasn’t just happening to me.
Around that time, I had an experience that cracked my world open even further. I had been imagining seeing someone—holding the possibility of crossing paths—and then found myself sitting across from them on an airplane, locking eyes in first class. Moments later, the woman next to me revealed a tattoo on her knee that mirrored exactly what I had been contemplating. It felt small and cosmic at the same time. That moment shifted me out of the story of life is hard and things are shitty and into wonder.
I began to sense the magic of life—and my participation in it.
I changed my diet. Through nourishment and intuitive eating, I began reconnecting to my body. Movement followed. Yoga entered my life. So did long conversations with strangers and elders, moments of unexpected connection that slowly expanded my sense of community.
While I wasn’t full-time in school, I read constantly. I trained as an Integrative Health Coach through IIN, focusing on intuitive and integrative nutrition. I began working in the wellness space and met more people who spoke the same language of healing and embodiment.
I entered a spiritual psychology program through the University of Santa Monica—a place where everyone was working through their trauma, willing to go into the deep, dark pain and bring it to the light.
That program blasted me open.
suicide loss
I was in my second round at the University of Santa Monica when my brother died by suicide.
That loss changed everything. That grief was different.
I was older, a little wiser, and I had more tools. I could actually feel what was there instead of bypassing it. I learned how to be with grief—how to let it move through me, how to listen to what it was asking of me, how to hold myself through the waves. For the first time, I experienced community truly coming together around grief—through bodywork, food, ritual, emotional presence. My healing journey deepened, and I continued walking the path of transformation with the support of somatic practices, spiritual devotion, and plant medicine work that helped me meet myself more truthfully.
My dad was always my best friend, but through the loss of my brother, I watched his light slowly fade—until, eventually, I lost him too.
When I looked at at my dad, I could see how much pain he carried and how similar we were. I knew, deep down, that if I hadn’t found the tools I had, I might have ended up on the same path.
When my dad died by suicide seven years after my brother, grief became my greatest teacher.
Grief showed me, again and again, what is real. It taught me how to soften. How to stay. How to love myself in the places where I once abandoned myself. It helped me finally understand something that now feels undeniable.
Nothing was wrong with me. I wasn’t broken. I was unheld. Unseen. Untaught in the ways of healthy love.
My path shaped me into who I am today.
Through movement, embodiment, and eventually teaching Pilates, I stepped fully into my body and my voice.
I learned what it felt like to be strong—not just physically, but emotionally and energetically. I watched grief change shape inside me.
I noticed how what once felt like a bottomless hole began to fill, slowly, with presence, meaning, and care.
And instead of letting grief keep me small, isolated, or trapped in that old story, I chose to share what I’ve learned—with tenderness, humility, and deep respect for the uniqueness of every person’s journey. Because your path isn’t wrong either.
