The Somatic Side of Grief

There are losses that carve something out of us, leaving behind an ache words can’t quite reach. Grief isn’t just an emotion—it’s an experience that sinks deep into the body, woven into muscles, nerves, even the quiet between heartbeats. No matter how hard we try to outthink or outrun it, loss finds its way beneath the skin. The body remembers.

We talk about grief as something in the mind or heart—a sadness, a longing, a storm of memories. But so often, grief settles in the flesh. You might notice it as a heaviness in your chest, a tightness in your throat, an ache that lives in your belly or in the stiffness of your shoulders. It’s in the insomnia, the foggy brain, the way your breath gets shallow or your appetite disappears. Maybe your body moves more slowly, as if it’s carrying a hidden weight. Maybe you feel numb, disconnected, a stranger in your own skin.

This is the somatic side of grief: the body doing its best to hold what the heart cannot. Sometimes, when we can’t find the words, the body speaks for us. Tears rise unexpectedly. The urge to curl up, to isolate, to hide away from the world. Or the opposite—the impulse to move, to clean, to run, to shake something loose that feels stuck.

Most of us have never been taught how to move through grief, only how to survive it, to “be strong,” to get on with life. We try to push grief away, to bypass it, to busy ourselves until the sharp edges dull. But the truth is, what we resist in grief just finds a new place to settle—in our bodies, our relationships, our sleep, our sense of self. Grief wants to move, not be exiled.

So, how do we honor the body in grief? How do we help loss move through us, not just get stuck within?

Start by listening. Notice where the ache lives. Maybe put a hand there, breathe into that spot. Ask your body, What do you need right now? Sometimes the answer is rest. Sometimes it’s movement. Sometimes it’s touch, warmth, water, or simply being witnessed—by yourself or someone you trust.

Gentle rituals can help: Take a slow walk in nature, letting the earth hold what feels too heavy. Give yourself permission to cry—loudly, softly, however it comes. Breathe deeply, letting your exhale be a kind of letting go. Move—dance, stretch, shake, even if it’s just a sway in your chair. Write a letter to your grief, or to what (or whom) you’ve lost, letting the words flow without judgment. Light a candle, plant a flower, create a small altar—someplace physical where your grief can be honored.

Let others help you hold it. You don’t have to grieve alone. Allow yourself to lean on a friend, a therapist, a circle of witnesses who won’t try to fix you or rush you through your pain.

And most importantly, be patient. Grief moves on its own timeline. Some days it will rush through you, leaving you breathless. Other days, it lingers quietly in the background, waiting for a moment of stillness. Trust that your body knows how to mourn and how to heal, if you let it speak.

You are not broken for feeling this way. You are not too much, or too sensitive, or “failing” at moving on. You are human—aching, loving, remembering—and your body is part of the story. Let it guide you through the dark, one breath, one gesture, one gentle ritual at a time.

With you in the messy middle,

Sarah