Grievous
Gallery. Rising Again

Part gallery, part sanctuary, and at its center: a break room.

The break room

Write down what you need to release. On a plate. A glass. A bottle. Then throw it, let it shatter, and let it go. It doesn't fix anything. But it grounds you. It gives you a place to put the weight down — safely, privately, among people who understand exactly why you're here. This is the heart and soul of the Grievous Gallery.

Grief. Anger. Old wounds. The things you can't say out loud, or the things you've said too many times. You write them down on dishware, glassware, or whatever needs to leave your hands, and you throw. The room does the rest.

People laugh in here. People cry in here — not from pain but from relief. It's strange and it's simple and it works. The sound of glass hitting the wall is often the first deep breath some people have taken in a long time.

The gallery

Come alone. Come with someone. Come back as many times as you need. Beyond the break room, a smaller space is coming soon to support the rest of this community with open mics, poetry readings, live music, and rotating art — a place for the things that get made after you've let something go.

For the first-timer

You've heard about us from a friend, an article, someone who swore it changed something in them. Maybe you're not sure what to expect. That's alright. Most people aren't, the first time.

Here's what actually happens: you walk in, you write down what you're ready to release, and you throw it. That's the whole process. It's that simple — and somehow that's the hard part. Actually putting it into words. Actually letting your hand open and release.

You don't need to explain yourself here. You don't need to have the right words. You just need to be ready to put something down. We built this room for people carrying something too heavy to keep carrying alone. If that's you, even for one afternoon, for this one moment, we're glad you found us.

Welcome home

If you've been here before, you already know. You don't need us to tell you what this room does.

We know it's been a long three years. We know some of you have been checking back, asking around, wondering if we'd find our way to a new space. We did. Same heart, new walls, and a phoenix over the door — because that's exactly what this was: a long time in the ashes before we could rise again.

Thank you for waiting. Thank you for telling your friends about us while we were gone. This place exists because of everyone who's ever walked through its doors, in every version of it. You built this as much as we did.

Come home. The room is ready when you are.

About us

Long before there was a Grievous Gallery, there was a kid on a rooftop, throwing Christmas bulbs into the street just to hear them shatter. Childhood wasn't easy, and something about that sharp, final, done sound felt like relief in a way nothing else did. That feeling didn't leave. It waited.

December 12, 2012 was a day that changed everything. Sustaining a severe TBI in a parking lot at his work, the founder, Timothy, was flown by medevac to the hospital, brought back from the brink of a fatal accident. In the aftermath and the rebuilding, he found himself flooded with frustration and needed a way to release what he was feeling that didn't put weight on the people around him — the people trying hardest to help him heal.

He started writing down what he needed to let go of on glass bottles, of all things: the things he was angry about, afraid of, grieving. Then he'd throw them into the firepit. And something important occurred to him — the only mess left behind was glass. Just glass, on the ground. Breaking glass was a kind of damage he could live with, so much better than damaging a relationship he cherished. Glass could be swept away completely instead of carried into the next day. It felt strange at first. A little vulnerable, even, that breaking something was what it took to feel like himself again. But it worked.

His partner at the time watched him through this process of writing, throwing, and breathing easier after, and she said what everyone eventually says once they understand it: this could help other people, too.

She had known Timothy before the injury. She wanted him back. And she believed this strange, small ritual was part of how that happened.

The first break room

In 2016, the first break room opened its doors. The idea was simple, almost embarrassingly so: what if people could do this on purpose, in a space built for it, surrounded by people who understood?

Timothy started offering it to the local community, focusing especially on supporting first responders — the people who had helped save his life and who carry their own weight nobody sees. He'd walk in ahead of guests to set up the room, and over time, explaining the process became second nature: you write something down. You throw it. That's the thing. That's the whole thing.

People cried. Not because the glass cut them, but because something in them finally let go. People laughed, too, watching shards catch the light and skitter across the floor like something alive. Some of what people carry can't be put into words, and even then, this room seemed to help.

Ten years, three locations

The Grievous Gallery has moved. It's grown smaller in some ways, larger in the ways that matter. What's never changed is the heart and soul of it: the break room, centered around the belief that you can hold onto pain like it's the only thing keeping you afloat, or you can find a place to surface, catch your breath, and keep swimming.

This isn't about fixing anything. It's about forgiveness — both of others, and often, even harder, of yourself. Forgiveness is a practice. Something you learn by doing, again and again, one shattered plate at a time.

Ten years in, this is still, at its core, a room built by everyone who has ever walked through its doors. Every story left here becomes part of what makes the next person's visit possible.

Welcome to the Grievous Gallery. Let's see what you're ready to let go of.