Memoir • Inspirational • Spiritual Growth • Personal
Transformation • Mindfulness • Self-Help
Date Published: July 15, 2026
Publisher: MindStir Media
Our journey through life is rarely smooth sailing. We weather tempests
of anguish, traverse valleys of despair and fractured hopes, and carry the
scars of battles fought both within and without. Trauma becomes an indelible
mark etched upon our souls, a testament to survival. Landgrebe, a cancer
survivor, shows us that amidst these tempests, and within the quiet recesses
of our being, lies a sanctuary, a realm where healing begins and self-love
blossoms. It beckons us to shed the veils of doubt, to release the burden of
seeking validation, and to speak the truth of our own worthiness. This book is
a guide through the labyrinth of self-discovery, healing, and love. It invites
you to embark on a transformative quest: to heal the wounds of the past, to
nurture the seeds of compassion, and to bloom into a positive force. You will
journey through the art of becoming whole again. Through stories, ancient
wisdom, and practical practices, YOU Are Your Own Lost Love leads us from the
shadows of trauma into the luminous expanse of self-acceptance and peace. Join
Landgrebe on this sacred pilgrimage to return to the heart of our existence.
Together, you will rediscover the brilliance within and unveil the timeless
truth that has been waiting all along: YOU are your own lost love.
Excerpt
INTRODUCTION
I have been married more than once. And more than twice. After I left my last marriage in 2018, I felt wounded in ways that went deeper than I could name. I had endured significant verbal and emotional abuse, gaslighting, and lies. I felt reduced to a shadow, surviving in the dark more than living in the light. And by the time I walked away, it seemed I had lost everything: my confi dence, my light, and my passion for life.
A year after the ending, during Christmas of 2019, my third son, Michael, and I spent two weeks together in the Colorado Rocky Mountains with his dog, Reese. Reese had been rescued from a Denver pound, but there was nothing lost or broken about him. He was half husky, half German shepherd, and black with warm brown markings that gave him the look of something both wild and noble. There was a presence about him, a quiet dignity I can only describe as gravitas. He carried himself with the calm authority of a shaman; wise, watchful, and deeply attuned to vii Introduction the world around him. On the trail, he would always trot a few paces ahead, as if he knew the way better than we did, as if the mountain belonged to him. But no matter how far he wandered forward, he never let us out of his sight. He would pause, turn, and wait, his eyes scanning, making sure we were still with him, always alert to my son’s voice.
I’ve always been close to my sons. Anyone who has raised children into adulthood knows this truth: if you stay open, they become your mirrors. They show you who you are when you’re not looking. Most of what I have learned about myself—what I avoid, what I carry, what I refuse to put down—I have learned from my four boys.
One day, Michael and I were hiking along a snowy ridge on the Continental Divide. It was the kind of day that feels almost sacred, with blue sky stretched wide above us, snow quiet under our boots, the world holding its breath. We stopped for a mo ment, and he turned toward me.
“Mom,” he said, gently but straight on, “what’s wrong? I’ve never seen you this angry. Or this unhappy.”
Michael is tall and steady, the kind of man who doesn’t need to take up space to be felt. He carries himself with quiet confi dence — rooted, attentive, present. When he speaks, he means what he says. When he looks at you, he’s there. Fully. You feel met.
His words cut through something heavy inside of me. Suddenly, the solace I usually find in the vast silence of the mountains feels like an echo chamber. I hadn’t realized how far I had wandered from myself. I had been living inside my grief and nursing old wounds, replaying the ways I had been hurt. I was so focused on what had happened to me that I never noticed what it was costing me.
He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. But he was definitely calling me out. “Mom,” he said again.
I came back to the present.
“You’ve been doing this,” he continued. “You disappear even when you’re standing right here. I know you think you’re being strong, but it’s like you’re walking through deep snow and sink ing, and you won’t let anyone help you out.”
His voice was calm. It was not an accusation, but it landed hard. I felt like I had just face-planted in the snow.
There he stood — the man I had raised, looking at me with love and frustration braided together. He carries a strength that feels familiar to me, only younger, less worn down. There is safe ty in him now. And a kind of wisdom that doesn’t match his age. That kind of honesty can hurt, but only because it’s true.
I just stood there, breath heaving from the altitude, boots sinking slightly in the crusted snow. The wind slipped cold fingers down the collar of my jacket. I was staring out into the peaks, pretending to be captivated by the view.
For a year, I had been dragging the weight of my last marriage behind me like a ball and chain—the betrayal, the gaslighting, the endless ache of being unseen and unprotected. I had been walking through life like a ghost of myself: cynical, bitter, and angry in a way I did not want to admit, even to myself. And the worst part? I had lost the light in my life. My soul had curled into a dark corner, too bruised to crawl out.
That is what Michael saw when he turned around to face me. Not just his mother, but a woman who had once danced in the firelight of her own life, now standing with a dimmed flame.
His voice was calm, his jaw was tight, and his eyes, his deep, steady eyes, were holding me to the truth like a mirror I could not look away from. I felt my throat tighten. I wanted to snap at him. To tell him that he did not understand. That he had not lived what I had. That he did not know what it was like to give ev erything to someone who kept breaking you down behind closed doors. To wake up every morning wondering if today would be the day you’d finally stop hoping he’d change.
But I did not. He was right.
I looked up at him, his strong, six-foot frame steady against the wind, dark hair curling a little where sweat met the icy air. He looked true. Like a man who knew who he was. And in that moment, I saw something that undid me: my pain reflected in the worry on his face. I was not the only one carrying it; he had been carrying it too, just differently.
In this moment, Michael was showing me the version of myself I had stopped believing in. I walked to stand next to him, my boots crunching in rhythm with my heartbeat. “I don’t want to be this angry anymore,” I said. My voice cracked. “I just don’t know how to stop.”
He did not say anything. He just stood there and held my gaze, let me be broken without trying to fix me.
And, somehow, that was what started the shift.
We kept walking. We didn’t talk much, but the silence be tween us was not empty anymore. It was full of mindfulness—of being right there and now, and of beginning again. Of recovering something lost.
I felt the sun hit my face, and for the first time in a long time, I let it in.
In that moment, I heard my spiritual mentor’s voice echo inside me: “Susanne, YOU are your own lost love.” Her words resounded like the meditation bell ringing in my heart, remind ing me that the way forward was not through blame or bitterness but through turning inward, taking responsibility, and being in the present moment.
She always quoted, “The kingdom of heaven is within you.” That day did not grant me a photo on the highest point in Colorado. It brought me something else: the courage to name the pain, the choice to stop dragging it, and the reminder that sometimes the light we have lost is not gone; it is just waiting for us to turn and face it again.
About the Author
There comes a moment in every life when the search outward becomes a journey
inward.
For more than three decades, Susanne Landgrebe has devoted her life to helping
others remember what she believes is the deepest truth of the human
experience: we are not broken, and we have never been separate from the love
we seek.
A Nurse Practitioner certified in Family Practice, Dermatology, and
Integrative Medicine, Certified Yoga Therapist, and Certified Meditation
Teacher, Susanne has spent more than twenty-five years blending the wisdom of
modern medicine with contemplative practice, mindfulness, and the profound
healing that arises through self-compassion, presence, and authentic
connection.
Her understanding of healing has been shaped not only by decades of caring for
patients, but by walking through her own darkest valleys. As a survivor of
Philadelphia chromosome-positive acute lymphoblastic leukemia and multiple
life-threatening complications, she discovered that even in the face of
profound uncertainty, the human spirit possesses an extraordinary capacity to
awaken, love, and begin again.
A lifelong meditator, retreat leader, writer, mother, grandmother, and
mountain climber, Susanne finds her greatest teachers in both silence and
nature. Whether sitting in meditation on the Iowa prairie, leading others in
retreat, or standing atop a fourteen-thousand-foot peak in the Rocky
Mountains, she is continually reminded that the outer journey mirrors the
inner one: every ascent begins with a single courageous step, and every summit
reveals an even wider horizon.
Her writing weaves together science, spirituality, psychology, and lived
experience with warmth, honesty, and hope. She invites readers to move beyond
fear, perfectionism, and the endless search for fulfillment outside
themselves, returning instead to the quiet wisdom and love that have always
lived within.
YOU Are Your Own Lost Love is the first of what she hopes will be many books
exploring healing, awakening, resilience, and the extraordinary beauty of
being fully alive. Her greatest wish is that every reader closes her books
feeling a little lighter, a little freer, and more deeply at home within
themselves.
Because the greatest journey we will ever take is not toward becoming someone
new, it is toward remembering who we have been all along.
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