When Grief Reaches the Spiritual Body

 

Questions Without Answers

Part 5 of 5

What happens to our faith, our purpose, and our sense of belonging when grief rearranges the furniture.

I’m not an introvert. I’m also not the life of the party. I land somewhere in the middle, which is mostly fine until the room changes.

When expectations shift, mine or other people’s, I sometimes decide that no one can really see me. So I get smaller. I find a quiet spot in the conversation and fit myself into it, nodding in the right places.

Then comes the odd part. Having made myself small, I don’t feel I have permission to speak. I’m in the room, but I don’t have a voice in it.

I used to think that was a social problem. Now I think it’s grief, the kind that comes with transitions, when the old script has changed and nobody handed me the new one.

We’ve talked about how grief shows up in the body, the heart, and the mind. There’s one more place it reaches: the spiritual body.

This is the part of us that looks for meaning, connection, and belonging. For some of us, it’s rooted in God, prayer, or a faith community. For others, it’s found in nature, in people, in creating something, or in the quiet sense of being part of something bigger. Grief doesn’t ask which one is yours. It touches all of them.

When the ground shifts

A death can change how we understand God. A divorce can shake the promises we built a life on. Retirement, a move, an estrangement, a diagnosis, or a dream that isn’t going to happen can leave us wondering who we are and where we belong.

The questions are often quiet:

What am I supposed to do with my life now?
Where do I belong now that home has changed?
How do I pray when I don’t have words?
What do I believe now?
Can I trust life again?

We may not even recognize these as spiritual questions. We just feel restless, flat, or disconnected. Often that is grief asking us to look again at the things that used to give our lives shape.

What it can look like

Going through the motions. You still show up for church, the holidays, the rituals, the dinners. The words are the same, but you can’t find yourself inside them.

Anger. At God, at the universe, at the unfairness of it all, especially if you tried to live faithfully and love well.

Lost purpose. The role is over. The person who needed you is gone. You know your life still matters, but you can’t feel it yet.

Loneliness in a crowd. The people around you are uncomfortable with your questions, or they hurry to reassure you before you’ve said what hurts. You get quieter, and the room doesn’t notice.

Silence. You reach for the practices that used to comfort you and nothing happens. You pray and hear nothing. You walk outside and the world carries on, unaware that yours has changed.

Nothing is wrong with you when this happens. The absence of comfort is not the absence of meaning, and uncertainty is not failure. It may just mean you’re living through something your old ways of understanding can’t fully hold.

Five gentle places to start

You don’t have to find a lesson in your loss or turn it into growth before you’ve finished mourning it. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is tell the truth about where you are.

1. Let yourself ask the questions.
You don’t have to protect your faith, your family, or anyone’s comfort by keeping them to yourself. If you’re angry with God, say so. If you don’t know what you believe, let that be true for now. Questions aren’t evidence that you’re doing grief wrong. Bring them to prayer, a friend, a spiritual director, or a journal page, and don’t worry about resolving them all at once.

2. Notice what still connects you to life.
Sun on your face. A song that brings someone close for a moment. The smell of coffee. A tree on your daily walk. Someone who doesn’t try to fix your grief. These moments don’t cancel the loss or mean you’re moving on. They’re just proof that you’re still here. You don’t have to make them mean more than they do. Just notice.

3. Let your practices change.
A prayer might shrink to one breath. Meditation might be sitting quietly without trying to feel peaceful. Worship might be music at home. A walk might be how you pay attention when words fail. Your spiritual life is allowed to change as you do.

4. Find company that can hold uncertainty.
Some people will offer explanations or remind you what you should be grateful for. They usually mean well, but reassurance can feel lonely when you need someone willing to stay in the question with you. Look for a friend, spiritual director, grief coach, counselor, or faith community that makes room for lament as well as celebration.

5. Give meaning time.
Meaning doesn’t have to explain what happened. It may begin with what you want to carry forward: the love that still shapes you, the values that held, the way you show up for others because you know something about suffering now. You don’t have to decide today what this will mean in your story. You’re still living it.

You don’t have to go back to who you were

We often imagine healing as a return to the person we were, the faith we had, the life that made sense. But some losses change us for good. The work may be less about getting back and more about learning to live with integrity in the life that’s here now.

Your questions may change. Your understanding of God may grow roomier. Your sense of purpose may get quieter. Or you may simply notice that you got through a day without needing to understand everything. That counts as a place to begin.

A moment for you

Let your feet rest on the floor. Notice what’s holding you up. Take a breath, if that feels okay. You don’t need to feel peaceful or reach for any particular belief. Just ask:

What feels uncertain in me right now?
What am I longing to feel connected to?
What would it look like to be gentle with myself in this not-knowing?

You don’t have to answer all three. You might not have an answer to any of them. Let the questions be enough for today.

You’re allowed to be in the middle of it. You’re allowed to grieve the beliefs, identities, and understandings that once helped you make sense of your life. And you’re allowed to find out, slowly, what connection and meaning might look like now. Not because grief has a lesson you must learn, but because you’re still here, and your life is still unfolding.

If you’re in a loss or transition that has unsettled your sense of meaning, you don’t have to figure it out alone. At EMBody Wisdom, I offer grief coaching and spiritual direction as a place to slow down, listen to what’s happening inside you, and have some company while you find your footing. You can schedule an into session with me at https://calendly.com/d/dz7y-f3b-65w/intro-meeting

Want a gentle reminder that you’re not alone, once a month? write "sign-up for Newsletter" and send to erin@embodywisdom.com

The Stories We Tell About Our Loss

 Part 4 of 5 - The mental body, and a practice for noticing thoughts without obeying them

Loss doesn’t only arrive in the heart and the body. It arrives in the mind, too, and the mind gets to work right away. It starts telling stories.

I should be over this by now...
I could have done something...
If I had seen it coming, said it differently, spoken up sooner, made a different choice...
Everyone else seems to be handling this better than I am...

You might recognize a few of these. You may have been telling one of them to yourself for months, or years, so quietly that it stopped sounding like a thought and started sounding like the truth.

And the loss behind the story doesn’t have to be a death. We grieve a marriage that ended, a job that disappeared, a diagnosis that changed the plan, a home we had to leave, a friendship that faded, a community that isn’t what it was, a dream that didn’t come true, or a version of ourselves we thought we’d always be...The mind tells stories about all of it.

What changed for me

It’s been a long time since I’ve had an “I should have” moment. That wasn’t always true. At some point I learned to shift that practice, and I’m sure I don’t do it perfectly or all the time. But the longer I pay attention, the more I think it has less to do with a clever thought technique and more to do with small, regular connections.

A small connection might be a text that says “thinking of you,” a short phone call, ten unhurried minutes at a kitchen table, or a card that arrives on an ordinary Tuesday. None of it looks like much on its own. But when it’s done with time and intention, it adds up. Over the years, those small moments leave less unsaid and less undone. When I’ve been in the habit of showing up, even briefly, the “I should have” voice has less to work with.

The same is true of the things in our lives that aren’t people: a body we listen to, a dream we tend, a work or a community we stay close to. Small, regular attention keeps us in relationship with them, so that when something changes, we’re less likely to be left wondering what we missed.

The flip side is true too. When the small connections get skipped, because life is full, the call can wait, or we assume there will be time later, the “I should have” voice has more to work with. Missed moments don’t usually feel like much in the week they’re missed. They add up the same way the small connections do, only in the other direction. Neither direction is a verdict on us. It just helps to know that small, ordinary choices carry more weight than they seem to.

This isn’t a guarantee, and it isn’t a measure of anyone’s worth. Some losses come with no warning and no chance to say goodbye, and some of us were doing our best in seasons when “small and regular” was more than we had to give. If you’re carrying an “I should have” right now, that’s what the practice below is for.

The third body

The mental body is the third layer of the four energy bodies I talk about: physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. It holds our thoughts, beliefs, and the narratives we use to make sense of our lives.

The mind is a meaning-maker. When something painful happens, it wants an explanation, a cause, a reason, and above all a way to feel less helpless. That’s a gift most of the time. In grief it can become a trap.

The hard truth about telling ourselves “I could have done something,” is that blaming ourselves can feel strangely better than the alternative in the immediate present sense. If I could have prevented it, then the world still makes sense and I still have some control. The harder truth is that sometimes there was nothing we could have done, and our love and our effort still weren’t enough to keep things from changing.

Behind “I should be over this,” there’s often a quieter fear: that we’re taking too long, that we’re a burden, that something is wrong with us. But grief doesn’t run on a schedule. It lasts as long as the love does, and love doesn’t have an expiration date.

What’s in our hands and what isn’t

A lot of the stories we tell are really about control. They quietly blur the line between what was ours to carry and what never was. It helps to separate the two.

What we don’t control: how and when someone dies, what a diagnosis does, what a company or a committee decides, what other people choose, whether a relationship can be saved, when a season ends, and how long grief takes. We can’t go back and change any of it, no matter how many times the mind replays it.

What we do have a say in: how we show up from here. We can tell the truth about how we feel, reach out to the people still with us, speak to ourselves the way we’d speak to a friend, and honor what we lost in ways that feel true. We can also make amends where something real needs repair. This is where those small, regular connections come in. They’re one of the few things that are always within reach.

What hindsight does

One reason the “I could have” story is so persuasive is that we’re telling it from the other side of the event. We know how it ended. We’re looking back at an earlier version of ourselves who didn’t have that information and judging her by what we know now.

That earlier version was doing her best with what she knew at the time, usually while tired, scared, and caring about something. A kinder question is what did I know then, and what was I carrying?

Sometimes there is something real to face, a harm done or something left unsaid that truly needs repair. That deserves care and is worth bringing to a trusted person, a pastor, or a counselor, not buried and not endlessly relitigated. But most of the time, the story in our heads is far harsher than the facts.

A practice: notice, don’t obey

You can’t stop your mind from telling stories, and you don’t have to. What you can do is change your relationship to them. Try this the next time one of these thoughts shows up.

1. Catch it and add a few words. Instead of “I should be over this,” try “I’m having the thought that I should be over this.” That little shift creates a bit of space between you and the thought. It’s a thought passing through, not a verdict.

2. Ask: is this a fact or a story? A fact can be checked. “The company closed in June” is a fact. “I should have seen it coming” is a story. You don’t have to argue with it. Just notice which one you’re holding.

3. Check what it does in your body. Notice what happens in your chest, your stomach, your shoulders when the thought arrives. Does it tighten you, or ease you? Your body often knows before your mind does whether a story is helping or hurting.

4. Listen for the love underneath. Many of these thoughts are protecting something. “I should have done more” often means I cared and I wanted more for it. “I should be over this” often means I’m tired and I want to feel okay again. You can thank the thought for trying to help without letting it run the show.

5. Offer one true, gentler sentence. This isn’t forced positivity. It’s something you can actually believe, like “I did the best I could with what I knew” or “I’m allowed to still be hurting” or “Missing what was is part of having loved it.” Say it quietly to yourself, the way you’d say it to a friend.

You may need to do this many times. These stories have had years to grow, and they won’t disappear overnight. Each time you notice a thought without obeying it, you loosen its grip a little.

You’re not alone in this

If you’re in a season of remembering, with anniversaries, holidays, and the days that mark who or what isn’t here, the stories tend to get louder. That’s normal. You don’t have to sort through them by yourself. Saying a story out loud to someone who can hear it without needing to fix it often takes away half of the power of the story.

A gentle invitation

This week, listen for one story you tell about your loss. Just listen. Don’t argue, and don’t try to replace it. Then ask yourself: what would I say to someone I love who told me this story about themselves?

What is the story you’ve been telling yourself, and what might be underneath it?

And who is one person you could offer a small, intentional connection to this week?

If you’re ready to talk, schedule a free conversation here or reply to this post, and we’ll find a gentle first step together.

---

Honored to walk with you,
Erin

Feelings Are Meant to Move

 

Part 3 of 5…The emotional body, and how to let what's inside you travel

Think about the last time you cried and when you stopped you actually felt like you finished. Maybe it was in the car, or the shower, or at a funeral where someone sang the right hymn. Afterward you probably felt lighter, or a little wrung out, and maybe oddly clearer. Something had moved through you and kept going.

Now think about the last time you didn't let the tears finish. You swallowed the lump in your throat because there was a meeting at 10:00. You said "I'm fine" because the people around you needed you to be. You stayed busy, and the feeling went somewhere. It didn't leave, though…

The second body

I often talk about the four energy bodies that radiate out from each of us: physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. The emotional body is the second layer, just beyond the physical one. It's where our feelings live and travel.

The word emotion comes from the Latin for "to move out." Feelings are energy in motion. They're built to rise, crest, and pass through us, the way weather crosses a valley. Anger, sorrow, fear, delight, and longing are all meant to arrive, be felt, and then…keep...going.

When we hold a feeling in place, we don't dissolve it. We just stop its motion. It settles into the body as a tight chest, a clenched jaw, shallow breathing, a heaviness behind the eyes, or a tiredness that sleep doesn't fix. It also tends to leak out sideways, as irritability with someone we love or tears over something small. Most of us have been told that's overreacting. Usually it's an old feeling finally getting its turn.

Why we get stuck

As a woman in the western world I learned early that that some feelings weren't welcome. Maybe you heard it too... "don't cry" or "be strong”... maybe you learned that your sadness made the adults around you uncomfortable, or that being the capable one (the one who was able to hold emotions at bay) was how you earned your place. Those were reasonable ways to survive. They worked, and they kept us safe and connected.

Over a lifetime, though, unmoved feelings accumulate. This is part of why grief can be so heavy. It's rarely only the loss in front of us in present time. It's EVERY EARLIER LOSS we didn't have room for, now arriving all at once.

Moving without drowning

If you're someone who's held a lot in, the idea of letting it all out can feel frightening, and that makes sense. Many of us worry that if we start, we won't be able to stop. Here's the good news: feelings don't have to move all at once. They can move a little at a time.

1. Start with the body, not the story. Skip the question of why you feel this way. Ask where it lives. Is it a weight on your chest, heat in your face, a knot in your stomach? Describe it like a curious observer: tight, warm, heavy, fluttery. Naming the sensation gives you something to be with that isn't the whole narrative.

2. Name it simply. "This is sadness." "This is anger." "This is fear dressed up as busyness." Putting a word (or words) on a feeling often steadies it.

3. Keep one foot on the shore. Place your feet on the floor. Feel the chair holding you. Notice one thing in the room that is safe and ordinary. You can move toward the feeling for a minute, then back to the floor, then toward it again. This back-and-forth lets the feeling move without taking you under.

4. Let the breath do some of the work. Breath is the bridge between the body and the emotions. A long, slow exhale, longer than the inhale, tells your nervous system it can soften. Try a sigh. Let a sound come out if one wants to.

5. Give it somewhere to go. Feelings move through the body, so let the body help. Walk, stretch, shake out your hands, hum, rock, cry, or put a hand over the place that aches. Write for five minutes and then throw the page away if you need to.

6. Keep it short. Set a timer for two minutes or three minutes or five minutes. You can come back tomorrow. Small, repeated moments of movement usually do more than one big dramatic release.

You don't have to do it alone

Some feelings are too big, or too old, to move alone, and that isn't failure. It's what humans are built for. We heal in company: a friend who stays, a pastor or spiritual director, a counselor, a grief group, is like a hand held over the heart.

If the feelings ever feel overwhelming, or you're afraid for your safety, please reach out to a mental health professional or a crisis line right away. Moving feelings gently is a practice, and it isn't a replacement for care.

A gentle invitation

This week, notice where a feeling might be asking for a little room. You don't have to fix it or understand it. Just offer it a breath and a minute of your attention, and see whether it moves.

If you’re ready to talk, schedule a free conversation here or reply to this post, and we’ll find a gentle first step together.

What is one feeling you've been carrying that might be ready to move?

---

Honored to walk with you,
Erin

---

What the Physical Body Remembers

 

Part 2 of 5 - Last week I told you I’d started to feel translucent, a shadow you could see right through. What I didn’t say is where I felt it first.

It wasn’t in my thoughts. It was in my body: a tightness across my chest, a shallow pull on the inhale, shoulders that had crept up toward my ears making my neck ache and restricting me from moving my neck. My body knew something was wrong long before my words caught up.

That’s what bodies do. They remember.

The body keeps its own record

We tend to think of grief as something that happens in the mind or the heart. And that is true - but we don’t see it as readily there.  As I watch and learn about grief and loss I noticed early on the same thing again and again: grief moves into the body and makes itself at home.

Many people notice it in the same few places.

• The chest. Heaviness, tightness, a feeling of something pressing or hollow. Sometimes it’s the ache people mean when they say “heartbroken.” (I think this is where I learned about it first - that people can actually feel like they are having a heart attack)
• The throat. A lump, a catch, a swallowed word. This is often where the unsaid settles, including the things we couldn’t say at the funeral, in the meeting, or at the dinner table.
• The gut. Knots, nausea, a loss of appetite, or a churning that doesn’t have a clear cause.
• The shoulders and jaw. Bracing. Holding. The body’s way of staying on guard when the world no longer feels safe.

You might also feel it as exhaustion that sleep doesn’t touch, or a heaviness in the limbs, or a strange numbness, as if the volume on your own body has been turned down.

None of this means something is wrong with you. It means your body is doing exactly what bodies do when something we love can’t stay as it was. It is trying to protect you.  It is trying to put up buttresses to support you, where you have not been noticing you need it. 

Why the body holds on

When we can’t say the thing, can’t cry, can’t be fully ourselves, the feeling doesn’t disappear. It needs to go somewhere. And often it goes quiet and low, into muscle and breath.

One of the first things the body does when we are managing a feeling is change how we breathe. We hold it, shorten it, or tuck it into the upper chest. Over time, shallow breathing becomes the new normal, and we stop noticing. We also stop taking in as much of what nourishes us, including connection, comfort, and joy.

That is actually why I begin with the body in this series. Even though I am not a physical therapist, or masseuse or a trainer.  Before we can change the story of how we are moving in the world, we need to find out what the body has been carrying.

You can’t force a release

We don’t need to dig for the grief or pry it loose. A body that has been bracing for a long time doesn’t respond to force. It responds to safety, to gentleness, and to being noticed.

So the practice this week isn’t about fixing anything. It’s about listening.

A practice: Listening Hands

This takes about three to five minutes.

1. Find a position that feels supported. Sit, lie down, or lean back, whatever lets your body rest.
2. Take one natural breath, without changing anything.
3. Place one hand on your chest and one on your belly. Let them rest there, warm and unhurried.
4. Ask quietly, “What are you holding?” You don’t need an answer in words. Notice any sensation: tightness, warmth, heaviness, or nothing at all.
5. When you find the place that feels most held, rest your hand there. Breathe in slowly through your nose, sending the breath toward wherever your hand in resting.
6. Exhale slowly through your mouth, a little longer than the inhale, as if you’re offering that place some room.
7. Stay for five or six breaths. Then notice: did anything shift? even slightly?

If nothing comes up, that’s fine. Listening is the practice, and some days the body just needs to know you’re there.

If this practice feels uncomfortable or brings up more than you want to feel right now, open your eyes, feel your feet on the floor, and return to your natural breath. Stopping is also a way of caring for yourself.

This week

Pay attention to the moments when your body speaks up: a tight throat in a hard conversation, a clenched stomach before a visit, shoulders creeping up while you scroll.

You don’t have to do anything about it. Just say to yourself, Oh, there you are.

And if you’d like to share, I’d love to hear: where does your body hold your grief?

Breathing in, I listen. Breathing out, I let it be here.

If you’d like company on the way

Your body has been carrying a lot, and you don’t have to listen to it alone. Through EMBody Wisdom, I offer grief coaching, life and transition coaching, spiritual direction, and Healing Touch, all of which begin with the body and breath.

If you’re ready to talk, schedule a free conversation here or reply to this post, and we’ll find a gentle first step together.

When You Start to Disappear: A Body-First Beginning

Part 1 of 5 - I have always been someone who speaks her truth. Ask anyone who knows me. So I didn't notice it when that started to change - at first, the way you don't notice a window slowly fogging over.

Somewhere along the way, there were more and more conversations in my life that stopped giving me back to myself. I was talking, but I wasn't being met. I wasn't catching my own reflection in the faces and words of the people around me, the way we do when we're really connected. And without deciding to, I had also stopped taking in joy. I wasn't breathing it in. I wasn't letting it land.

It was as though a darkness had formed, thin as a film, over almost everything.  Like I was becoming translucent.  I had a harder time letting the words move past my lips, afraid that they would just drop in front of me.

It seems almost too much, but I think I want to call this what it is: grief. Nobody died. But something I love, a self that moves freely and connects and receives, couldn't stay as it was.

The grief nobody names

There are no casseroles for this kind of loss. No cards, no funeral, no one asking how you're holding up.  It is not no way as immediately life altering and I don’t want to compare it to the deep grief we feel with the loss of life. And yet... we grieve the person we can't be in a room, the dream that quietly ended, the role that stopped fitting, the friendship that thinned, the version of ourselves we put away to get through a hard season.

If that's you, I want to say this plainly: your grief counts. You don't need a death to qualify.

Where we've been

If you're new here, or just need a refresher, here's the ground we've covered together.

• Grief is love with nowhere to go.
• Breath is the one body function we can leave alone (it is automatic) and also steer and strengthen.
• The four bodies, physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual, are the four places grief sits and the four doors through which healing can enter.

Why I'm starting with the body

For years I've sat with people in grief, I have had the honor to be present in it with others.  And as I have observed and learned through other avenues about what is “normal” is that grief shows up in the body before it shows up in the story. The tight chest. The held breath. The jaw that never unclenches. The shoulders that forgot how to drop.

When we can't be ourselves, or can't be received as ourselves, we often stop breathing fully. We manage how we appear. We take in less. And we start to disappear, one shallow breath at a time.

While that sounds dire - it is also the good news. The body is where we can be empowered to begin to find a little ease again. Not a fix, just a little room.

Where we're headed

Over the next several weeks, we'll walk through each of the four bodies together, with a simple practice every week. In late November we'll make room for joy and gratitude beside grief. Then, through Advent, we'll practice waiting in the dark, and on the longest night of the year, we'll sit with those for whom the holidays are heavy.

Come as you are. Dip in and out. You can't do this wrong.

A practice: Wiping the Window

This takes about two minutes.

1. Find a position that feels supported: sitting, lying down, or leaning against a wall.
2. Place one hand on your chest, where you hold yourself in.
3. Breathe in slowly through your nose, as if you're drawing in one small thing that nourishes you: a face you love, a sound, a patch of light.
4. Pause for a moment at the top.
5. Exhale slowly through your mouth, longer than the inhale, as if you're gently clearing a little of the fog.
6. Repeat three times. Then notice what changed, even slightly. Nothing needs to. Noticing is enough.

If any breathing practice feels uncomfortable, return to your natural breath, open your eyes, and notice the feel your feet on the floor and your hand on your chest. That's a perfectly good practice too.

This week

Notice what you're taking in, and what you've stopped taking in.

Then ask yourself: who or what could reflect me back to myself this week? You don't need a grand gesture. One conversation. One walk with a friend. One small moment of joy, actually let in.  You don’t even need to try to manufacture it - just be ready to notice when it happens.

And if you'd like to share, I'd love to hear: where in your body do you hold back the most?

Breathing in, I make room. Breathing out, I clear the glass.

If any of this sounds like you, if you’re feeling translucent, muted, or cut off from joy, you don’t have to work it out alone. I’d be honored to walk with you.

Through EMBody Wisdom, I offer grief coaching, life and transition coaching, spiritual direction, end-of-life coaching, and Healing Touch. Each begins in the same place this series does: with the body, the breath, and what’s true for you right now.

If you’re ready to talk, schedule a free conversation here or reply to this post, and we’ll find a gentle first step together.

The Breath Keeps Calling Me Back

 

For the past few weeks I've been writing about grief and about Healing Touch. Those two have been woven together in my work for a long time. This week I want to tell you where my attention is drifting, because it keeps drifting there, and I'm learning to listen when that happens.

It's breath.

Breathwork has been circling me for a while. It shows up in a conversation, a book, a moment in the middle of a hard day, and then I tuck it away in the back of my mind where I keep things I'll get to "someday." But it keeps coming back. At some point I had to admit that something that returns this often isn't peripheral. It's asking for a place at the table.

Part of why I'm able to say yes now is that I'm not training for anything at the moment. My running has quieted, and that has opened up space I didn't know I was missing. I don't think the timing is accidental. Sometimes Spirit makes room before we've even asked, and the invitation is simply to notice the opening and step into it.

So starting October 12, I'm beginning a six-week study of breathwork. I'm not pursuing a certification right now. I want to understand it more deeply: what is actually happening in the body, why certain patterns settle us and others stir us up, and how to offer it gently to others, including in grief groups where people are carrying so much and often don't know where to put it.

The part that connects to everything else, the thing I'm working on most, in my own life, is being present. This is not about "performing presence", but actually arriving in the room I'm in. My days are full, and it's easy to be in one conversation while my mind is already in the next one. What helps me is small and humble. Before I walk into a conversation, I take one slow breath, in for four, hold for two out for eight. Then I quietly name what I want to bring and what I need. Breathe, bring, need. That's it. It takes about fifteen seconds, and it changes how I show up.

I've come to think breath is the most available form of presence we have. It's already with us. We don't have to buy it, schedule it, or get it right. It's the one thing that's always happening in the present moment, which makes it a faithful doorway back to the body, and the body is where grief lives and where healing begins.

If you've been feeling scattered, braced, or far from yourself lately, try it right now. Breathe in for four. Hold for two. Let it out slowly for eight. Then notice what's here.

I'll share what I'm learning as I go. In the meantime, I'd love to hear from you: when do you most lose your presence, and what helps you come back?

Honored to walk with you,
Erin

Healing Touch and Grief: What We're Actually Tending

When Grief Moves Through All Four Bodies

Last time, I wrote about the four energy bodies Healing Touch works with - physical, emotional, mental, spiritual - and how they're never really separate rooms. One place I see that most clearly, and most often, is grief.

When people are grieving, they almost always describe it as one thing - a feeling, a fog, a weight. And it is that. But grief doesn't just live in one of the four bodies. It moves through all four, often all at once, which is part of why grief can feel so disorienting - you're not just sad, you're scattered.

The physical body is the one deep grief hits first and hardest, and the one we talk about least. The exhaustion that sleep doesn't touch. The ache in the chest that isn't a heart condition. The held breath, the clenched jaw, the stomach that won't settle. Grief is not primarily a thought - it's a felt experience in the body, and the body keeps score whether or not we're paying attention to it. Most grief support goes straight to words - tell me what happened, tell me how you feel - and words matter, but if the body is never invited into the room, a huge amount of what a person is carrying goes untouched.

The emotional body is the one everyone expects grief to affect: the waves, the sudden tears in the grocery store, the flatness that shows up between waves. What surprises people is how unpredictable the emotional body is in grief - it doesn't move in stages, it moves in weather. My work here is less about managing the feelings and more about helping someone trust that the weather will pass through, that they don't have to brace against every wave or chase every gap of calm. To learn they remember how to breathe, and that they aren't alone in the process.

The mental body shows up as fog. Rumination. The inability to finish a sentence or hold a simple decision. This often gets mistaken for something being wrong with a person - memory problems, focus problems - when really it's just doing what it's supposed to do: making room for something enormous to be metabolized. I try to help people stop fighting their own fog and instead work with it - smaller decisions, more patience with themselves, permission to not be sharp right now.

The spiritual body is where the deepest disorientation often lives - the crisis of meaning, the sense of not knowing where God or purpose or the future went. Feeling disconnected and disoriented is frightening. This is also, for me, where the most tender work happens, because it's the body most people feel like they can't talk about out loud. It's where the question isn't "how do I feel" but "who am I now, and what do I still believe."

If grief moves through all four bodies, then support that only addresses one - usually the emotional or the mental - leaves three-quarters of the person unattended. This is part of why I've come to believe grief work needs to include the body directly, not just conversation about the body. Healing Touch doesn't replace the talking and the meaning-making; it works alongside it, meeting what words haven't reached yet.

Grief is love that has nowhere left to go the way it used to. That love doesn't just live in the mind. It lives in the whole person. And the whole person deserves care.

Honored to walk with you,
Erin