The morning event was a man who said he had a Ph.D. in something I didn’t catch. Dr. Brauer wanted to hypnotize us—two hundred people, sitting in ballroom chairs close enough together that our arms were touching, hyped up on all the possibilities that lay before us. I didn’t know if I should stay or flee when he said he was going to take us through the three worst moments of our lives, in order to turn them into teachable moments for new growth opportunities.

I scanned the group to see if anyone else felt my apprehension, but everyone seemed eager to participate. Even more, they looked like this was exactly what they were paying hundreds of dollars for. It was a kind of grief-immersion therapy. This all felt antithetical to the work Bethanny was doing. Yes, she wanted us to face our grief, our clients to look at death without fear, but not like this. So why was I here?

Daphne’s death had dislodged something in me, and I was looking for new avenues for grief management.

I was sitting next to Philip, in his Hawaiian shirt, who told me he was there with his wife, Chelsea, newly retired and loving the Scottsdale lifestyle. A man in his sixties who had introduced himself as Walter when he sat down on my other side said he had never done anything like this before, though he admitted he did like going to Sedona, because it felt like a spiritual place where he could be himself. They didn’t drive around the country in RVs, but they were wanderers nonetheless. It appeared retirement gave them nothing else to do but search.

Dr. Brauer told us to close our eyes and take deep breaths. “I want you to walk along a path. It’s right there in front of you. Don’t be scared, just start walking,” he said. “Feel the mist on your skin.”

I closed my eyes. I wanted to feel the mist.

“You’re walking through the most beautiful garden you’ve ever seen. And you come upon an intricate door. Behind this door is the first of your trials. Behind this door is one of the worst things that have ever happened in your life. Now open the door.”

I opened the door. Through my young eyes I could see people idling around in my parents’ bedroom. I didn’t feel safe here, but I could tell no one noticed me. At that age, I was just hitting waist height on adults. Through hushed voices, I could tell there was something wrong, but I didn’t know what. I just saw my father’s feet first, the shoes he always wore. My mother was balanced over him, trying to wake him up. She called his name over and over again and he looked dead.