Grief Lives in the Body

When sorrow shows up as tight shoulders, shallow breath, and sleep that doesn’t soothe

Jul 05, 2025

The other day, a song came on the radio.

“Fathers and Daughters.”

I didn’t even register the first notes at first. Just this sudden shift. My stomach clenched, breath caught, a hot sting behind my eyes. And there it was. The wave.

It’s been years since he died. But my body still knows the first few chords. It still reacts before my mind can make sense of it. Because grief doesn’t live on a timeline. It lives in a body. And mine remembers.

Grief doesn’t only happen in your heart.
It happens in your chest, your jaw, your nervous system.
It happens when you can’t get warm, when you can’t sleep, when you flinch at joy because you’re afraid of what it might take from you next.

It lives in the moments when you forget, for just a second, and then remember.
It lives in the muscles that try to hold everything in, and the lungs that don’t quite expand all the way.

Why Your Body Feels Like It’s Falling Apart

After loss, your nervous system doesn’t know that the danger has passed.
It registers heartbreak as threat. And so, it prepares for survival.

You might feel:

Exhausted but unable to sleep
Sensitive to sound, light, or touch
Disconnected from your own skin
Clenched jaw, aching teeth, a forehead that always feels tight
Brain fog that makes even simple tasks feel monumental
A subtle (or not-so-subtle) hum of panic under everything

None of this means you’re doing grief wrong. It means your body is doing everything it can to protect you in a world that no longer feels safe.

Even if everything looks “fine” on the outside, your insides are learning to live with absence.

You’re Not Lazy. You’re Grieving.

One of the cruelest tricks of grief is the fatigue.

People assume you're just sad. But grief burns emotional calories all day long. Holding it together in public. Staving off tears. Pretending to be okay when you are anything but.

And then the nights, full of dreams, regrets, memories, or blank exhaustion. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with rest.

Grief fatigue is real. It’s cellular. It’s the body trying to process what the mind can’t yet understand.

If you feel like you’re dragging yourself through your days, like you’re underwater while everyone else walks on land: you’re not failing.
You’re grieving.

The Body Needs a Place to Put It

Unmetabolized grief doesn’t just disappear. It stores itself. It settles. In the shoulders, the belly, the breath.

We don’t need to explain it or analyze it.
But we do need to let it move.

Here are a few gentle ways to do that—not to fix anything, but to make room:

Hum. It stimulates the vagus nerve and signals your system that you're safe.
Rock side to side. Like being held. Like memory. Like breath.
Press your feet firmly into the floor. You’re still here.
Shake out your hands. Your legs. Let the stress exit.
Touch your heart, your arms, your face. Remind your body you're listening.

These aren’t cures.
They’re openings.
Little windows of breath when everything feels tight.

A Simple Reset

If today feels heavy, if your body feels far away or too loud, try this:

Sit somewhere quiet.
Both feet on the floor.
One hand on your chest. One on your belly.

Breathe in for four counts. Hold for four.
Breathe out for six.
Let the exhale be a letting go.

Repeat this three times. And if it feels right, whisper:
I am safe. I am grieving. I am allowed to feel this.

Stretch your arms. Shake your hands.
Let the breath settle.

Don’t come back to fix anything.
Just come back to remember that your body is yours.
And it’s doing the best it can.

Grief isn’t something to get over. But you don’t have to carry it alone.
Explore Still Here—a gentle, six-week digital companion for your grief journey.

You Are Not a Problem to Solve

Grief can make your body feel like a stranger.
Or worse, an enemy.

You might want to run from it. Numb it. Outperform it.
But your body isn’t the enemy. It’s the container. The witness. The alarm. The memory.

Instead of asking, “Why am I still like this?”
Try asking, “What does my body need right now?”

Maybe it’s:

Stillness
Crying
A warm bath
Movement
Rest
Permission

You don’t have to muscle through this alone inside your skin.

Before You Go…

Take a few minutes to reflect:

How has your grief shown up physically?
What signals has your body sent that you may have missed or ignored?
What does your body want more of? What might it need less of?

You don’t have to answer right now.
But notice.
Begin the conversation.

Your body doesn’t want perfection.
It wants presence.

If this resonates, I’d love for you to share it with someone who might need the reminder.

You’re invited to leave a comment and tell me what lands. Or just say “me too.”