Grief and the Body

When grief is something you can physically feel

Grief doesn't live only in thoughts and feelings.

It can sit in your chest.

Clench your jaw.

Tighten your throat.

Turn your stomach.

Make your limbs feel impossibly heavy.

Leave you restless, shaky, exhausted, aching, wired, numb, or somehow all of those things in the same day.

Sometimes you can know exactly what you're grieving and still have your body react before your mind has caught up.

Grief is physical too.

This isn't about breathing it away or teaching your body to stop grieving.

It's simply a way of noticing the body that has been carrying you through it.

WHEN THIS MIGHT HELP

When you notice yourself holding your breath.

When your shoulders are somewhere near your ears.

When your chest feels tight, your stomach is knotted, or you feel restless without knowing what to do with yourself.

When you've been living entirely inside your head.

Or when you simply want a few minutes to notice:

I have a body, and it is here with me too.

A SIMPLE BODY RITUAL

1 - Find something supporting you

Sit in a chair.

Lie on the floor or your bed.

Stand with your back against a wall.

Put both feet on the ground.

Notice what is physically holding your weight.

The floor.

The chair.

The mattress.

The wall.

You don't need to relax.

Just notice that you are supported by something.

2 - Notice before you change anything

Where do you feel grief today?

Maybe your chest feels heavy.

Your throat feels tight.

Your stomach is unsettled.

Your hands won't stay still.

Your whole body feels tired.

Or perhaps you don't feel much at all.

There is nothing you are supposed to find.

Notice without trying to fix it.

3 - Put a hand somewhere that feels okay

Your chest.

Your stomach.

Your arm.

Your face.

Or nowhere.

Touch isn't comforting for everyone, so skip this completely if it doesn't feel right.

If it does, simply notice the warmth and weight of your own hand.

No special technique required.

4 - Let your breathing be yours

You don't need to take enormous calming breaths.

You don't need to count.

Just notice one breath arriving.

And one leaving.

If slowing your breathing feels comfortable, let the exhale become a little longer.

If it doesn't, leave your breathing completely alone.

Your body already knows how to breathe.

5 - Give your body a little movement

Roll your shoulders.

Unclench your jaw.

Stretch your hands.

Walk around the room.

Shake out your arms.

Curl into a ball.

Stand outside.

Put on music and move badly to it.

There is no correct grief movement.

Sometimes the body needs stillness.

Sometimes it desperately needs to move.

Let yours have a vote.

IF YOU FEEL NUMB

Numbness is still an experience in the body.

You don't need to force yourself to feel something.

Instead, notice something neutral.

The temperature of the room.

Your feet inside your socks.

The texture of a blanket.

The weight of a mug.

The sound outside the window.

You aren't trying to make grief appear.

You're simply giving yourself something concrete to notice.

IF STILLNESS MAKES THINGS WORSE

Then don't be still.

This matters.

Closing your eyes, lying quietly or concentrating on your body can feel horrible for some people, particularly when you're already overwhelmed.

Walk.

Clean something.

Stretch.

Stand outside.

Hold something cold.

Put music on.

Move from one room to another.

Grounding does not have to look peaceful.

The point isn't to perform calm.

It's to find something that feels manageable in your body right now.

SOMETHING TO CARRY

Your body has been part of this loss too.

It has lived through the phone calls.

The shock.

The sleepless nights.

The crying.

The days you couldn't eat and the days you ate because there was nothing else to do.

The anniversaries your body seemed to remember before you did.

The moments when grief arrived without warning.

You don't need to be grateful for what your body has survived.

You don't need to admire its resilience.

Sometimes it is enough to recognise:

This has been hard on my body too.

And perhaps treat it a little more gently because of that.

THIS BODY

This body does not need to stop grieving.

It does not need to become calm on command.

It can shake.

Ache.

Rest.

Move.

Go numb.

Breathe however it needs to breathe.

It has carried love.

It has carried loss.

And today, it is carrying me.

For now, that is enough.