Grief As The Teacher: How to Navigate Loss

Greetings,

Have you read the book “I’m Not a Mourning Person” by Kris Carr? It’s a book about grief and loss, something that has been present in my own life this past year. So, in my typical gestalt and awareness practice, I look at what life is serving. Then, I contemplate it in hopes of making meaning, growing, or just being in the experience of whatever is in front of me.

It usually means I ask myself questions…How do I handle loss and grief? What do I know about it? How does it show up in my body? How do I self-regulate when it feels “too heavy”? And so on…Do you do the same? I’m genuinely curious. If I was better at journaling, I could fill books with my contemplations. I write newsletters and blogs instead. Here are a few things I’m learning about grief:

It’s painful. Loss comes in many varieties and regardless of what kind of loss, it hurts. The pain can be physical, mental, spiritual and emotional. If you’re experiencing loss right now, you probably know exactly what I mean.

Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. Some days it feels manageable. Other days it arrives unexpectedly, in a song, a memory, an empty chair, a change in routine. It can humble you quickly.

Grief can’t be ‘fixed’. It asks us to slow down and pay attention. Not to fix it. Not to rush through it. Just to notice what is happening internally with honesty and compassion.

“Some things cannot be fixed. They can only be carried” -Megan Devine

For me, that means paying attention to my body. Am I exhausted? Numb? Restless? Tight in my chest? Wanting to isolate? Wanting to distract? Awareness has become less about “doing it right” and more about staying connected to myself while moving through something hard.

Grief can feel isolating. What I notice is how often we grieve alone, even when we're not actually alone. We edit ourselves. We say "I'm okay" because we don't want to burden anyone, or because we sense that other people's tolerance for our grief has a shelf life. So we tuck it away and keep moving. And then it finds us later, in the car, in the shower, at 2am when everything is still and there's nowhere left to hide from it.

Grief reminds us that love leaves an imprint. We grieve because something mattered. Someone mattered. A season of life mattered. And while grief can feel painfully heavy, it also speaks to our capacity to love deeply. Maybe grief is love with nowhere obvious to go?

I’m learning that grief has its own language. Awareness helps me listen.

So I'm curious... what does your grief ask of you right now? And are you listening?

In Your Corner,

Adela