When the Tides Change: Holding Collective Grief in Our Bodies

  

The streets of Minneapolis have been transformed. Not just by the presence of federal agents, but by something more profound - the gathering of neighbors, the lighting of candles, the sound of thousands of voices saying names: Renée Good. Alex Pretti.

Two lives. Two U.S. citizens. Both 37 years old. Both killed by federal immigration agents in January 2026 during Operation Metro Surge. Renée, shot in her car on January 7. Alex, an ICU nurse at the VA, shot on January 24 while standing between an agent and a woman who'd been pushed to the ground.

As a grief coach and pastor who has walked alongside people through loss for over two decades, I've learned that grief is not just an emotional experience - it lives in our bodies. And when an entire community grieves together, something extraordinary happens. The body politic begins to feel what individual bodies have always known: that we are connected, that violence against one reverberates through all, that grief can become a doorway to transformation.

The Body Remembers

In the days since these deaths, I've watched people in Minnesota describe physical sensations: paralysis, inability to complete daily routines, a sense of being unable to breathe. One person at Alex Pretti's memorial said they felt "frozen" by grief. These aren't metaphors. When we experience collective trauma, our nervous systems respond as if we ourselves are under threat. Because in a sense, we are.

The sympathetic nervous system - our fight, flight, freeze response - doesn't distinguish between direct threat and witnessed threat, especially when the violence happens in our neighborhoods, to people who look like us, who could be us. When Renée Good was killed less than two miles from Alex Pretti's home, and when Alex was killed in his own neighborhood while trying to help someone, the message to every body in Minneapolis was clear: You are not safe.

This is what trauma does. It collapses time and space. It makes the body believe that what happened then could happen now, that what happened there could happen here.

What to Watch For in Your Body

If you're experiencing collective grief - whether from these events in Minnesota or other losses in your community - here are some signs your body is processing trauma:

Physical sensations:

• Tightness in chest or throat
• Difficulty taking deep breaths
• Fatigue or inability to sleep
• Digestive changes
• Tension in shoulders, jaw, or back
• Feeling "frozen" or unable to move

Emotional patterns:

• Sudden tears or emotional flooding
• Numbness or disconnection
• Anger that feels disproportionate (it's not)
• Difficulty concentrating
• Hypervigilance or jumpiness
• Feeling unsafe in previously familiar spaces

Behavioral changes:

• Avoiding news or obsessively checking it
• Withdrawing from community or clinging to it
• Changes in appetite
• Increased or decreased activity level

These are not signs of weakness. They are signs that your body is doing exactly what it was designed to do: respond to threat, process loss, and seek safety.

The Power of Coming Together

But what I've also been witnessing in Minneapolis, and what I know to be true from my work as a grief coach: When communities gather in grief, something shifts.

Thousands stood in 3-degree weather at Government Plaza. Candlelight vigils happened at street corners, sidewalks, parks across the Twin Cities. A GoFundMe for Alex Pretti's family reached $1 million in one day. The NBA postponed a game, held moments of silence. Governor Tim Walz proclaimed January 9 "Renee Good Day." People keep showing up at makeshift memorials even when it's hard, even when they feel paralyzed, because it's hard and they need to be together.

This is the body politic healing itself. This is what happens when individual nervous systems find each other and begin to co-regulate. When we stand together, our bodies literally communicate safety to each other. The presence of others who are also grieving tells our nervous system: You are not alone. You do not have to carry this by yourself.

Holding Grief and Joy Together

In the Christian tradition I serve, we talk about Good Friday and Easter Sunday - the capacity to hold death and resurrection, grief and joy, in the same breath. The Twin Cities are living this paradox right now.

Yes, there is profound grief. And there is also:

• The joy of neighbors who had never spoken now knowing each other's names
• The beauty of strangers bringing flowers to a memorial
• The power of car horns honking in support of marchers
• The courage of people choosing to show up despite fear
• The love of Alex's parents telling his story despite "sickening lies"
• The resilience of communities organizing, protecting, caring for one another

This is not toxic positivity. This is the full range of what it means to be human, to be embodied, to refuse to let violence have the final word.

Joy in the midst of grief is not denial. It's defiance. It's the body's insistence on life even in the presence of death. It's what happens when people refuse to be terrorized into isolation and instead choose connection.

An Invitation

If you're reading this from Minnesota, or from any community experiencing collective grief, I want you to know: What you're feeling is real. Your body's response is appropriate. You are not overreacting.

And you don't have to figure out how to move through this alone.

Grief coaching offers a space to:

• Name what's happening in your body
• Learn practices for nervous system regulation
• Process traumatic stress in a trauma-informed way
• Explore the spiritual dimensions of collective grief
• Find ways to take meaningful action
• Honor both the grief and the joy

The tides are changing in Minnesota. Not just because of federal operations, but because communities are learning what bodies have always known: we need each other. We heal together. And even in the midst of profound loss, life insists on itself.

Renée Good and Alex Pretti are gone. But their names are being spoken. Their lives are being honored. Their deaths are demanding accountability. And thousands of bodies are gathering to say: This matters. You matter. We will not forget.

This is the work of collective grief. This is the body politic, learning to breathe again.

---

Erin Martinson is an ELCA pastor, spiritual director, ACC life coach, and grief/end-of-life coach. Through EMBody Wisdom, she offers spiritually grounded, trauma-informed grief coaching that honors the integration of body, mind, and spirit. If you're navigating personal or collective grief and would like support, schedule an exploratory conversation.

For immediate support and resources related to what's happening in Minnesota, please reach out to local community organizations, mental health services, or trusted spiritual leaders. If you're in crisis, contact the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline.

Breathing Through the Storm: Your Body's Wisdom in Difficult Times

 

I don't know about you - but I've been feeling it lately. That particular brand of exhaustion that comes from juggling too many things at once. Wrapping up year-end responsibilities at my call in pastor life while simultaneously trying to build momentum in my personal business. Making connections, following up, planning ahead - all before Lent arrives and the rhythm shifts again. And in the middle of all that spinning, my workout routine has fallen by the wayside, which only adds another layer of weight. Not just physical weight, but the weight of knowing I'm not showing up for my body the way I want to.

It's in these moments - when I'm most stressed, most scattered, most convinced I don't have time to slow down - that I need to remember the very thing I'm writing about today.

When life feels heavy and the walls seem to be closing in, there's one simple truth your body already knows: this moment will pass.

The Breath You Forget

In the midst of stress, anxiety, or overwhelm, something subtle happens. Your breath becomes shallow. Your chest tightens.  You might find your shoulders crawling up to your ears.  Sometimes you might even catch yourself holding your breath entirely, as if bracing against an invisible impact.

Your body is responding to perceived threat the way it's designed to - but in our modern lives, most of our "threats" aren't actually physical dangers. They're deadlines, difficult conversations, financial worries, relationship tensions. And yet, we hold our breath just the same.

The Anchor That's Always There

It never ceases to amaze me that your body knows what your racing mind sometimes forgets: your breath is an anchor to the present moment. It's the bridge between your conscious and unconscious mind, between tension and release, between panic and peace.

But it's more than just a physiological response. In the Christian tradition, breath has always been sacred. The Hebrew word ruach means both "breath" and "spirit." When God breathed life into Adam, it wasn't just oxygen - it was the very Spirit of God. Every breath you take carries an echo of that first divine breath, a reminder that you are filled with God's presence, sustained by God's Spirit.

When everything feels permanent - the pain (however that presents), the frustration, the fear - your breath reminds you of a fundamental truth: everything is in motion. Everything changes. And through it all, the Spirit breathes in you, with you, through you.

Each inhale is a beginning. Each exhale is a letting go.

Nothing Is Permanent

The very hardest moments of your life have this in common with the very best: they don't last forever.

That argument that feels insurmountable right now? It will shift. That mistake that feels catastrophic? Time will provide perspective. That grief that feels unbearable? It will transform, even as you honor it.

Please do not read this as a kind of toxic positivity or spiritual bypassing. It's simply the nature of reality. Clouds move across the sky. Seasons change. Wounds heal. And you - you keep breathing.

A Practice for Right Now

Here's what I'm reminding myself, and what I'm offering to you: even when there's no time for the full workout, no space for the perfect self-care routine, no room in the calendar for everything we wish we could do...we always have our breath.

The next time life feels too heavy, too much, too hard, try this:

Pause. Just for a moment, stop what you're doing.

Notice your breath. Don't change it yet - just observe. Is it shallow? Held? Rapid? Notice without judgment. This is God's breath in you.

Place one hand on your heart, one on your belly. Feel the rise and fall. Feel the Spirit moving.

Breathe in slowly through your nose for a count of four. Feel your belly expand.

Hold gently for a count of four.

Exhale slowly through your mouth for a count of six. Let your shoulders drop.

Repeat three to five times, or as long as you need.

This practice is not about fixing anything or making the difficulty disappear. It IS about remembering that you have this tool, this wisdom, this anchor - always. Even when the gym membership sits unused. Even when the to-do list is longer than the hours in the day. Even when you're running on fumes trying to get everything done before the next season demands your attention.

Your body doesn't need perfection. It needs presence.

Your Body Remembers

Your body has survived every difficult moment you've ever faced. It has carried you through heartbreak, through loss, through uncertainty, through fear. And it's still here, still breathing, still ready to support you.

And that breath? It's holy. It's the same Spirit that hovered over the waters at creation.  You carry this with you, always.

When your mind spirals into catastrophe, your body can guide you back. When everything feels permanent, your breath - God's breath - reminds you: this too shall pass.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

You're still here. You're still breathing. And that's enough for this moment.

---

What does your body need you to remember today?

Why Grief Is So Hard to Hold - and Why We Need Guides (or coaches)

 

Grief is one of the most universal human experiences - and one of the least well held.

It arrives whether we are ready or not. It comes with death, yes, but also with endings: the loss of a relationship, a dream, a role, a body that once felt familiar, a future that quietly disappeared. Grief moves through our lives whether we have language for it or not. And yet, most of us are left to carry it alone.

We live in a culture that does not know what to do with grief.

We are taught to be strong, resilient, productive. We are praised for “moving on” and “looking forward.” We are given timelines - spoken or unspoken - for when grief should soften, quiet down, or resolve. And when it doesn’t, when it lingers in the body and resurfaces in unexpected ways, people often feel something is wrong with them.

But grief is not a problem to fix. It is a process to be accompanied.

Why Grief Support Is Hard to Find

One reason grief coaching and grief-centered support are so difficult to find is because grief itself makes people uncomfortable. It slows things down. It disrupts efficiency. It resists neat solutions. Even helpers - therapists, coaches, faith leaders, friends - can feel pressure to do something rather than to be with.

Many support systems are built around diagnosis, goals, and outcomes. Grief doesn’t follow those rules. It is nonlinear. It shows up in waves. It lives in the nervous system and the body as much as in thoughts and emotions. You can be “doing everything right” and still feel undone.

Because grief doesn’t fit easily into productivity-driven models of care, it often gets minimized, spiritualized away, or pathologized. People are told to be grateful, to find the lesson, to focus on what remains. While these responses are often well-intended, they can leave grievers feeling unseen and misunderstood.

Another reason grief coaching is rare is that it requires the guide to be willing to stay present with pain - without rushing it, fixing it, or turning away. That kind of presence takes training, practice, and humility. It asks the guide to have a relationship with their own grief, their own losses, their own tenderness. Not everyone is supported or encouraged to do that work.

What Grief Actually Needs

Grief needs time.
Grief needs space.
Grief needs permission.

It needs someone who understands that grief is not just emotional—it is embodied. It shows up as tightness in the chest, heaviness in the limbs, exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix, a nervous system that feels perpetually on edge or shut down. Grief changes how we breathe, how we move, how we orient to the world.

Grief also needs language that does not rush toward meaning too quickly. Before “making sense” of loss, we need help staying with the sense of it - what it feels like, where it lives, how it moves.

This is where grief coaching becomes essential.

What Grief Coaching Offers

Grief coaching is not about giving advice or prescribing a way through loss. It is about companionship and capacity. It offers a steady, attuned presence that helps people learn how to be with what hurts without being overwhelmed by it.

A grief coach helps create safety for grief to be expressed honestly - without timelines, without comparison, without pressure to perform healing. Grief coaching honors that each grief is unique because each love is unique.

Through gentle practices, reflection, and embodied awareness, grief coaching helps people:

• Understand what their grief is asking of them

• Learn how to listen to their bodies with compassion

• Build nervous system capacity to stay present with pain

• Integrate loss into life without erasing it

• Find meaning that emerges organically, not prematurely

Grief coaching does not take grief away. Instead, it helps grief become something that can be carried—woven into life rather than fought against.

Why We Need It Now

We are living in a time of collective grief - grief layered upon grief. Loss has become both personal and communal, visible and invisible. Many people are grieving without naming it, wondering why they feel so tired, disconnected, angry, or fragile.

We need spaces where grief is not treated as an interruption to life, but as part of it.

With the work of EMBody Wisdom, grief is approached as a teacher - not because it is easy or good, but because it reveals what matters most. We believe grief deserves patience, reverence, and skilled accompaniment. We believe people heal not by bypassing pain, but by being met within it.

If you are grieving and have felt alone, behind, or “too much,” know this: nothing is wrong with you. Your grief makes sense. And you do not have to carry it by yourself.

Grief was never meant to be rushed.
It was meant to be witnessed.

And sometimes, the most healing thing is simply having someone walk beside you and say, I see this. I’m here. We can go at the pace your body needs.

That is the quiet, essential work of grief coaching.

New Year - Grief edition

 Does January feel heavier than it's supposed to?

We're a week into the new year and I need you to hear this: you are not behind.

There's no award for bouncing back on schedule. No gold star for having your vision board ready or your word of the year picked out. Some people hold it all together with coffee and sheer stubbornness, wondering how everyone else seems to have moved on while others are still trying to remember what day it is.

That's not weakness. That's grief doing exactly what grief does.

January has a cruel talent for amplifying absence. The holiday distractions are gone. The house is too quiet. And you're left staring at a whole year stretched out in front of you - 365 days of figuring out how to do life without them.

Everyone else is posting about fresh starts and new beginnings. Setting goals. Making plans. Talking about their best year yet.

And you're over here thinking, "I just need to make it through February."

Here's what no one says out loud enough: you can be grateful for a new year and also dread it. You can want to move forward and still feel stuck. You can show up for your life and simultaneously wonder how you're supposed to do this for another twelve months.

None of that means you're doing it wrong.

It just means you loved deeply. And that love doesn't disappear just because the calendar flipped.

Grief is not a sign you're failing at life or that you need to try harder. It's evidence that someone mattered. That something real existed. And the sacred is not standing there with a stopwatch, waiting for you to hurry up and heal already.

Some years, the fresh start is not about reinvention. It's about survival. About waking up and choosing to keep going even when you're not sure why. About doing the next thing because it's the next thing, not because you have some grand plan.

That's not settling. That's courage.

You are allowed to ignore the productivity posts. You are allowed to skip goal-setting if it feels pointless right now. You're allowed to have zero vision for the year ahead except "try not to cry at work." That is completely acceptable human behavior.

And listen...if all you managed this week was getting out of bed and making it through the days, even if half of them were fueled by spite and chocolate, you can still count that as a win.

Progress doesn't always look like forward momentum. Sometimes it looks like staying upright. Sometimes it looks like still being here.

So take January at your own pace. Log off if the fresh-start energy feels exhausting. Say no to things that feel too hard. Let yourself miss them without apologizing for it.

You don't have to carry this year perfectly. You just have to carry it honestly.

And if you find yourself having a good moment and then feeling guilty about it? You don't need to. Joy isn't betrayal. It's proof that love is still doing its work in you, even in the middle of loss.

If you're navigating this new year with grief that won't quit, you don't have to do it alone.

I have space for 2 new clients this month. After that, I'll be taking a break through Lent (February 17 - April 6) for my own time of reflection and renewal.

EMBody Wisdom holds space for you in the messy middle - where you don't have to explain yourself or pretend you're more okay than you are.

If you need support, reach out.

www.embodywisdomca.com

9:29 AM JANUARY 1, 2026 Title: Welcome to the Other Side

Well, you made it.

You crossed the threshold from one year into the next - at least according to the Gregorian calendar. And if you're anything like me, you woke up this morning feeling... exactly the same as yesterday?

That's the thing about New Year's Day - we expect some grand transformation, some cosmic shift, a feeling of newness washing over us. But mostly it just feels like Wednesday. (Or Thursday as is happens this time)

Of course, this is just one new year. The lunar new year won't arrive until late January. The Jewish new year happened back in the fall. Different cultures, different rhythms, different doorways into what's next. Time is more fluid than our calendars suggest.

And yet.

Something did shift today. You stepped through a doorway. This particular calendar flipped. A chapter began, even if it doesn't feel dramatic yet.

Think of it like planting a seed. On January 1st, nothing looks different on the surface. But underground, something is stirring. Roots are beginning to reach. The conditions for growth are being set.

So today, you don't have to have it all figured out. You don't have to be a new person or make sweeping declarations. You just have to show up and take one small step in the direction you want to go.

The in-between is over. Now comes the becoming.

What's one small step you can take today?

DECEMBER 31, 2025 Title: Living in the In-Between

You know that slightly disorienting feeling you've had all week? Like time doesn't quite make sense and you're not sure what day it is or what you're supposed to be doing?

Welcome to the in-between.

This stretch between Christmas and New Year is one of those rare pockets where the normal rules don't quite apply. Work is quiet (or closed). Obligations have lifted. The holiday is over but the new year hasn't started. You're floating in this liminal space where past and future meet, and honestly? It feels a little trippy.

And that's exactly as it should be.

Transition times are supposed to feel disorienting. You're leaving something behind and you haven't fully arrived at what's next. You're between stories - the old one is ending, the new one hasn't been written yet.

Your body knows this. That's why you might feel restless, sleepy, contemplative, or all three at once. That's why time feels elastic and strange.

So instead of fighting it,…

What if you leaned in? 

What if you let yourself drift a little, daydream, wonder?

What if you gave yourself permission to exist in the in-between without needing to have it all figured out?

The answers will come. (If you are earnestly searching) But not today. Today is for the pause, the breath, the space between.

Happy in-between day.

The Weight of an Empty Chair

 

There's something about Christmas that makes absence feel like a presence all its own.

The stocking that shouldn't be there but is. The recipe you can't bring yourself to make. The song that ambushes you in the cereal aisle and leaves you gripping your cart like it's the only thing keeping you upright.

If you're navigating this season with a hole where someone used to be, let me say it plainly: 

you are not broken because this is hard.

Grief Doesn't Follow the Calendar

We live in a culture that wants grief to have an expiration date. Six months, maybe a year if it was really significant. Then you're supposed to be "better." Ready to participate fully in joy again, no lingering sadness allowed.

But grief isn't linear. It doesn't care that it's the most wonderful time of the year. It shows up uninvited, sits down at your holiday table, and refuses to leave just because everyone else is singing carols.

And here's what no one warns you about: some years are harder than the one before. You think you've found your footing, that you've learned how to do holidays without them, and then this Christmas arrives and it's somehow worse than last year. That's not regression. That's not "going backward." That's just how grief works—it doesn't follow a predictable path or get consistently lighter with time.

Some days you're fine. Some days you're holding it together with dental floss and sheer determination. Some days you do both before breakfast.

All of it is valid.

The Truth About Joy and Sorrow

Here's what they don't tell you: you can hold both at the same time.

You can feel grateful for the people gathered around you and simultaneously ache for the one who isn't. You can laugh at your niece's terrible joke and then retreat to the bathroom to cry five minutes later. You can love the traditions and also feel crushed by them.

This isn't contradiction. It's wholeness.

It's what it means to be human—to carry love so deep that its absence creates its own kind of gravity.

What the Season Actually Asks of You

Nothing.

Christmas asks nothing of you except to show up as you are.

Not the polished version. Not the "I'm fine, really" version you trot out for concerned relatives. The actual you—the one who's tired, the one who's still figuring out how to exist in a world where they aren't, the one who ate cookies for dinner because cooking felt impossible.

That version is welcome here.

The sacred doesn't require your performance. It never has. The first Christmas itself was a mess - Joseph and Mary far from home and family, scrambling to find shelter, giving birth in a barn surrounded by animals and chaos. No one had it figured out. No one was doing it "right." They were exhausted, displaced, and making it work with what they had.

Divinity entered through that mess, not despite it.

They were just doing it. And so are you.

Permission to Protect Your Peace

You don't have to attend every gathering. You don't have to explain why certain things are too much this year. You don't have to force cheer or fake enthusiasm or pretend the hole isn't there.

You can say no. You can leave early. You can change traditions or abandon them entirely.

You can also keep the ones that feel like lifelines, even if they hurt. Even if everyone else thinks it would be "easier" if you just let them go.

This is your grief. You get to decide how to carry it.

The Unexpected Moments

And you know the weird, uncomfortable truth: sometimes, in the middle of the heaviness, joy will sneak up on you.

A memory that makes you laugh instead of cry. A moment of connection that doesn't feel like obligation. A sudden, surprising sense of them being near - not in a haunting way, but in a way that feels like love persisting beyond what should be possible.

These moments don't mean you're "over it." They don't mean you're betraying their memory by feeling something other than sadness.

They mean love is still alive in you. Still doing its work. Still insisting on its own existence, even in the spaces where loss lives.

You Don't Have to Do This Perfectly

There is no correct way to grieve during the holidays. No rubric. No scorecard. No invisible judge tallying up whether you're handling it with grace.

All you have to do is breathe. Show up. Feel what you feel without apologizing for it.

If that means crying through Christmas dinner, so be it. If that means skipping it entirely and watching old movies in your pajamas, equally valid. If that means doing everything exactly as you always have because routine is the only thing keeping you steady right now - that's okay too.

You are allowed to survive this season however you need to.

The Space I Hold

At EMBody Wisdom, I understand that the holidays can illuminate everything you're carrying - the love, the loss, the unbearable weight of both existing simultaneously.

I hold space for you in the messy middle, the uncomfortable in-between where grief and gratitude coexist. Where you don't have to explain yourself or apologize for not being "over it yet."

This isn't about fixing you or making the pain go away. It's about being present in it with you-  so you don't have to navigate the hard parts alone.

If you need support this season - or any season - reach out.

Because here's what I know: the fact that it still hurts means the love was real.

And that love? It doesn't end just because they're not physically here.

It transforms. It persists. It shows up in unexpected moments and reminds you that connection doesn't require presence.

It just requires truth.

So be truthful this season. With yourself. With your grief. With your moments of unexpected joy.

That's not failing at the holidays.

That's living fully in them.

---

When Life unravels...
know that you're not alone.
EMBody Wisdom holds space for you in the messy middle - the uncomfortable in-between
as you come Home... to Yourself.