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Welcome to this last article in the five-part series exploring grief through the lens of neuroscience and mindfulness. In this article, I’ll outline what happens as grief evolves, when love is forced to shift from physical presence to memory, from something shared externally to something carried within. If you haven’t read the earlier articles in this series, you can find them here: Part 1: The Weight of Grief Part 2: Permission to Feel Part 3: Living Alongside Loss Part 4: Small Anchors for Dark Moments  Image credit to: ipopba from Pop Nukoonrat’s Images (Canva) The Continuing Connection: A Love Evolved There are moments in grief that catch us off guard and leave us feeling disoriented, like when you reach for your phone to share something, only to remember that the person you want to tell is gone, or when you feel that sudden pull of attention toward the door, expecting them to walk in. These moments reveal just how deeply love is wired in us. It’s woven into our habits, our reflexes, our very sense of self. While the mind knows the person we love is gone, the body still expects their return. And it’s in that space, the gap between knowing and feeling, that grief settles in and makes itself at home. Why Letting Go Feels Impossible Has anyone ever said to you, “You have to let go”? Well-meaning friends can sometimes not fully recognize the weight of their words. For most grieving hearts, “letting go” feels both impossible and wrong. Neuroscience shows us why: the brain doesn’t simply delete the neural pathways that were built through love and attachment. Research by Mary-Frances O’Connor (2022) demonstrates that when we love someone, the networks that link safety, belonging, and identity become interwoven with that person’s presence. When our loved one dies, those pathways don’t disappear; they remain active. The brain continues to search for them, scanning for familiar cues of voice, scent, or presence, because love, at its core, is a pattern of connection the brain has learned by heart. Through neuroplasticity, these pathways adapt over time, but this process unfolds slowly. The brain must gradually learn how to hold connection in a new way, from external presence to internal memory. And that takes patience, safety, and repetition (that ages-old saying about time). That’s why “moving on” can feel like a betrayal. Your brain isn’t malfunctioning — it’s remembering. It’s honoring what was, even as it learns how to live with what is. The Science of Continuing Bonds Grief theory has evolved significantly over the past century. Earlier psychoanalytic models, most notably Sigmund Freud, proposed that healing required detachment — the withdrawal of emotional energy from the deceased so that love could be redirected elsewhere. In this view, continuing to feel connected was seen as pathological, a sign of being “stuck” in grief (O’Connor, 2022). For many who mourned, however, this idea didn’t match their lived experience. Love didn’t simply evaporate after loss; it lingered, reshaping daily life in quiet, enduring ways. I believe we still see Freud’s theory lingering today when well-meaning friends say, “It’s time you let go.” By the 1990s, researchers Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman, and Steven Nickman (1996) formally challenged this detachment model. Their concept of Continuing Bonds introduced a more compassionate, realistic view: that maintaining an inner relationship with our deceased loved one is not denial, but an adaptive and healthy part of grief. Modern neuroscience supports this shift. Studies show that the neural circuits responsible for attachment and love remain active even after loss (O’Connor, 2022). The brain does not erase these pathways; it gradually learns to integrate the loss while preserving connection in a new form. In this way, continuing bonds reflect both psychological and neurobiological adaptation. Our relationships evolve from physical presence to internal presence, from being beside us to living within us. Of course we don’t stop loving the person; we just learn to love them differently: through memory, ritual, creativity, and the choices we make in their honour. This ongoing connection isn’t avoidance or denial: it’s the brain and heart working together to integrate absence into presence, love into meaning. This notion of continuing bonds reminds us that love doesn’t end — it changes shape, finding new ways to live through us. How We Carry the Connection There are many ways we can maintain bonds with those we’ve lost. And again, these aren’t grand gestures. They’re small, meaningful acts that help the brain and heart find coherence again. Each one offers the nervous system a way to feel safe enough to stay connected while integrating the reality of loss. Here are three suggestions: Moments of Remembrance: You are most likely already engaging in moments of remembrance. Suggestions for these moments include lighting a candle, visiting a favourite place, or listening to their music, all of which help the body feel connected again. Rituals like these help calm the stress response and foster a gentle sense of safety in the face of loss. These moments, while likely ushering in feelings of sadness at first, remind the brain that love still exists in the present moment, even when the person is physically gone (O’Connor, 2022; Norton et al., 2014). Carrying Forward Their Qualities or Values: If it’s okay, take a moment to reflect on how your loved one showed love, what they valued, and what beliefs and morals they stood behind. And then, consider how these show up in the way you live your life now. Embodying even one of those qualities, perhaps their kindness, humour, or sayings, can keep their story alive through you. This continuation helps the prefrontal cortex (that part of our brain that’s linked to meaning-making) weave the bond into your identity in a healthy, integrated way (Jones et al., 2023). Creative Expression: When grief is fresh, creativity often feels impossible or even wrong. How can we paint, write, or sing when our loved one will never again experience that kind of joy? In the early stages of loss, creative pursuits can feel frivolous in the face of something so vast. Yet, the instinct to create, to bring something new into being, is the same life force that grief temporarily silences. I once heard a saying: “If you are a creator and you aren’t creating, you will create chaos.” I repeat it here because grief already feels like chaos; the disorganization of love with nowhere to go. Creative expression gives that energy a direction. Writing, painting, planting, building, singing or playing an instrument- all of these give shape to emotions that can’t yet be spoken. Neuroscience shows that creativity engages multiple areas of the brain, including those responsible for emotional regulation, problem-solving, and memory integration (Beaty et al., 2016). In other words, when you create, your brain begins to weave together fragments of experience that loss has torn apart. You don’t have to make something beautiful or exceptional. This isn’t about art as product; it’s about creation as process, as a way to metabolize emotion. Whether you’re tending a garden, journaling, or simply sketching lines on paper, what matters is that you’re giving grief motion (Schell Pate, 2024). The very word emotion carries within it the word “motion”. That’s because emotion is meant to move, to flow, to be expressed. When emotion becomes trapped, it turns inward as tension, fatigue, or numbness. But when we let it move, even gently, through the act of creating, we invite the body and brain to complete cycles of feeling that loss interrupted. Over time, this becomes a quiet act of defiance against despair, and a tender act of honouring life itself. Quiet Dialogue: Speaking to your loved one in reflection, letters never sent, or prayer can activate some of the same emotional regulation pathways that were once engaged during real connection (Coan & Sbarra, 2015). This doesn’t have to be religious or even spoken aloud. It might be a silent “I miss you” while driving, a quiet greeting when passing a photograph in your home, or a journal entry addressed to them. Far from being a sign of denial, this is neurobiological continuity- your brain’s way of sustaining the attachment in a new, internal form.  Image credit: TrueCreatives (Canva) A Practice for Reflection
If it feels okay, I invite you to try this brief reflection for two minutes: When you think of your loved one today, place a hand over your heart and notice the warmth that meets your palm. Let yourself linger there for a moment. As you sit, notice what arises in your body. Perhaps a tightening in the throat, a heaviness in the chest, or a soft ache of longing. There’s no need to change any of it. Breathe with it, allowing sensations and emotions to ebb and flow as they need to. Then, when you’re ready, say silently or aloud: “I love you, even without you here. I will always carry with me my love for you.” (or other words that feel right to you). If your mind wanders, return to the feeling of your hand over your heart, the steady rhythm of your heart beating, your breath flowing in and out. Thank you for taking a moment to try that. This practice helps your nervous system recognize that you can safely hold both love and grief at once, letting them move through you rather than become trapped inside. This isn’t about holding on to pain. It’s about carrying forward love, memory, and meaning. The relationship continues; not as absence, but as presence, reshaped but still alive within you (Kirschner et al., 2020). Closing Thoughts I appreciate the continuing bonds concept because it reminds us that grief isn’t about forgetting, it’s about remembering differently. I hope it resonated with you, also. Our love doesn’t end at the last breath; it shifts from something shared between two people to something that lives within one. Even when the ache feels sharp, threatening to destabilize us, our love remains. Steady and changed, but unbroken. And over time, that love becomes a quiet compass, guiding you gently forward, and back toward the world again. Reflecting on The Grief Series I so appreciate having had you here through these five articles. Researching and writing this series has been both healing and deeply gratifying- a way of processing my own experiences of loss while offering something that might ease yours. To be able to inform and support someone else in carrying grief is an honour. Across these 5 articles, we’ve travelled through the many presentations of grief, from its weight and confusion, through the courage to feel, the learning to live alongside loss, the steadying of small anchors, and finally, the quiet evolution of our continuing bonds. If you take only one thing with you, let it be this: grief is not a problem to fix. It represents a relationship to honour. It’s love, learning a new language. I hope these reflections and practices help you meet your grief with tenderness, not to rush it, but to walk beside it. And as you do, may you keep discovering that even in the midst of loss, there are moments of connection, of meaning, and of light and love still waiting to be felt. Thank you so much for being here. References
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Part Four in the 5-part series Grief and the Body: Finding Steadiness in Loss This is the fourth in a five-part series exploring grief through the lens of neuroscience, compassion, and healing practices. In this article, I’ll share a few suggestions that can help the nervous system remember safety in the midst of sorrow. Thank you so much for being here. If you haven’t yet read the prior articles, you can find them here: Part 1: The Weight of Grief Part 2: Permission to Feel Part 3: Living Alongside Loss  Image credit: TheDigitalArtist (Canva) There are moments in grief when even the simple act of breathing takes effort; when time loses its shape and everything blurs into a quiet ache. In those moments, healing can feel impossible; even imagining what normal could look like again feels out of reach.
When grief first arrives, it’s not just emotional; it’s physiological. It changes how the brain functions, how the body feels, even how time passes (O’Connor, 2022). Everything that once felt automatic, such as sleeping, eating, responding to messages, can suddenly feel like climbing uphill with no plateau in sight. If you’ve found yourself struggling to focus, misplacing things and forgetting small details, or feeling strangely numb to moments that once lit you up, please know this: you’re not failing at grief. You’re moving through what’s known as a grief state, described by O’Connor as a state of neurobiological adaptation after loss (2022). I view it as a season when the heart and nervous system are relearning how to live in the aftermath of loss. Sometimes we hold an expectation of what healing should look like: grand gestures of wellness, sudden bursts of motivation, or the return of joy. But grief doesn’t unfold like that. What helps, and what can feel more attainable, are anchors: small acts that remind the nervous system how to find its footing again. When emotion feels too big or too distant, these moments of grounding give the body a safe rhythm to return to. They regulate what’s been flooded, awaken what’s gone numb, and gently teach the system that it can move between feeling and rest without becoming lost in either. Why These Small Actions Matter After a loss, the body’s stress response often remains activated, shifting between fight, flight, and freeze. Even when life on the surface seems to resume, the body can still be bracing, for example, with muscles tense, breath shallow or at times held, the mind scanning for what’s no longer there. The nervous system hasn’t yet caught up to the new reality. It’s still searching for solid ground, whispering questions that echo through every cell: How do I go on?, Where do I place my love now? This lingering activation is the body’s way of protecting you. It’s not resistance to healing; it’s your physiology doing its best to keep you upright in the aftermath of too much incomprehensible change. Here’s where the science of safety becomes so vital. According to Polyvagal Theory (Porges, 2011) and somatic psychology (Ogden, 2006), the body’s sense of safety is restored not through logic or willpower, but through cues of connection such as breath, movement, attunement, and presence. When the world feels unsafe, the body doesn’t need pressure to move on. It needs small, trustworthy signals that gently remind it: You can soften now. You are safe enough in this moment. And that’s where small anchors come in: simple, sensory practices that help the nervous system remember what steadiness feels like, even in the dark. In the early stages of grief, even ordinary moments such as noticing hunger and eating, listening to music, and completing the small tasks of daily living can feel distant or hollow. The nervous system is still searching for signals that say, “You’re safe enough now to soften.” And those signals are what help the body begin to trust the present again. That’s why engaging in small, consistent anchors matters. Each time you take a steadying breath, a sip of water, or notice something soothing in your environment, you’re giving your brain new data, a message that “there is still safety here.” Over time, these micro-moments of regulation become pathways for restoration, gently re-teaching the nervous system how to rest, connect, and eventually, to feel again. Five Small Anchors These small anchors are repeatable cues that remind your body that safety still exists, even in the midst of mourning. Anchors can be sensory, physical, or relational; so, for example, intentionally pausing to notice the weight of your feet against the floor, the warmth of a mug of tea in your hands, the rhythm of your breath, the comfort of a friend’s voice or a pet’s steady presence. These anchors are not about bypassing grief. Rather, they are signals of safety to your nervous system. They’re small ways of staying connected to safety and meaning while your system learns to live in a changed world. Each time you pause to notice an anchor, you are gently strengthening neural pathways that help your body regulate. This is referred to as experience-dependent neuroplasticity, the process by which repeated small moments of awareness and safety reshape the brain’s circuitry (Siegel, 2012; Hanson, 2013). So in essence, you’re training your nervous system to recognize the positive thought “I can return to steadiness, even briefly.” Have a read through the following suggestions, and I invite you to try each one. Each offers a different pathway for calming the nervous system and nurturing emotional resilience. These anchors are not about bypassing grief. They’re small ways of staying connected to safety and meaning while your system learns to live in a changed world. Each one offers a different pathway for calming the nervous system and nurturing emotional resilience. 1. Ground through your senses: Very simply, this anchor is about just glancing around and naming five things you see. This simple act helps the brain reorient from memory networks (the past) to sensory networks (the present). It gently redirects energy from rumination to awareness, calming the amygdala and signalling to your body: “I am here, in this moment, and I am safe enough right now.” 2. Anchor in rhythm: If you’re in a place where it feels safe to move or be present with your breath, begin by noticing the rhythm of your body. Feel the rise and fall of your abdomen as you inhale and exhale. Let the breath move naturally; no need to force or deepen it. If it feels supportive, allow your body to sway gently, as if rocking yourself into calm. You might even rest a hand over your heart or on your abdomen to feel the movement more tangibly. These rhythmic motions help regulate the vagus nerve, which is considered the body’s main pathway for rest, safety, and connection (Porges, 2011). Slow, repetitive patterns tell the nervous system, “You’re safe enough to ease.” Over time, this practice lowers heart rate and cortisol, steadies breathing, and fosters a quiet sense of groundedness. When grief feels too heavy or emotions too flat, rhythm can offer the body a way to find itself again, acting as a bridge between feeling and feeling calm. 3. Intentional connection: Could you take a moment to text one person who feels safe, not to talk about grief, but just to connect as a means of reminding your nervous system that connection still exists. Social contact releases oxytocin and dopamine, two neurochemicals linked to calmness, safety, and reward. Even brief, low-demand moments of connection (a text, a smile, a few quiet minutes shared with someone whose presence feels steadying to you) can help restore the brain’s trust in belonging. Note: If you’ve known relationships that felt unpredictable or unsafe, it’s okay to be discerning here. The nervous system softens most in the presence of safe connection, the kind that asks nothing of you, where you can simply exist as you are. Over time, these small, trustworthy exchanges strengthen the pathways that remind your nervous system: “I can be with others and still feel safe. I am not alone.” 4. Find a moment of awe: If you can, pause for a breath and let your attention land on something that stirs even a flicker of wonder: perhaps the colours in the setting sun, the stillness or clear sky after a rain storm, the softness of a pet’s fur, the ‘just right’ temperature of hot water in your shower. Intentionally noticing these moments of awe matters because doing so activates the brain’s reward circuitry, quieting self-focus and easing emotional constriction (Fredrickson, 2009). They widen perspective, reminding us that even amid grief, we remain part of something vast and interconnected. Awe doesn’t erase pain, but it gently widens the view around it. 5. Gratitude (no matter how small): If it‘s ok, take a moment to reflect one thing, however small, that you can appreciate right now. Research from UC Berkeley’s Greater Good Science Center shows that noticing even brief moments of gratitude can help the brain balance sorrow with appreciation. This isn’t about denying emotional pain or “thinking positive.” Rather, it’s about widening your awareness so that both sorrow and appreciation can coexist. Each small acknowledgment of gratitude becomes a cue to the nervous system, a subtle reminder that goodness still exists alongside loss. With repetition, these moments carve new neural pathways of resilience, helping the body find its way back to calm and connection, even in the presence of grief. Small Can Feel Too Small You might be reading this and think, “What difference will it make?” And that’s fair, because in grief, almost everything feels insignificant when compared to what was lost. What I can share is that repetition rewires the brain. Every small act of grounding, every sensory cue of safety, every gentle moment of connection builds a foundation, a neural groundwork where healing can take root. So even though these are small anchors, even when it doesn’t feel like progress, even when you can’t feel the shift, your body is remembering how to live alongside the loss — one breath, and one small anchor at a time. Closing Thoughts Each small anchor you try is more than a coping strategy. It’s a signal to your nervous system that even in loss, life continues to move through you. These moments don’t erase the pain you feel, but they do begin to weave grief into the ongoing rhythm of your life- allowing love, meaning, and calm to coexist with sorrow. Over time, these small moments of grounding and awareness strengthen the neural pathways that help regulate emotion and restore balance. They remind the body that safety and connection can still be found, sometimes only for seconds at a time, and that is a good enough start. Remember, healing doesn’t happen through grand gestures; It happens one repetition at a time, through small acts of intentional attention that slowly rebuild your system’s trust in safety and connection. In the next article, I’ll talk about how love itself endures- how we continue to hold our loved ones within us, not as pain to carry but as meaning to live by. Thank you so much for being here and for reading. Part 5: A Continuing Connection References
Part three in the 5-part series on Grief - Finding Steadiness in Loss I’m so pleased to have you hear reading this third article in the five-part series exploring grief through the lens of neuroscience, mindfulness and healing practices. In this one, I’ll explore what it means to coexist with grief over time, when the intensity of emotion softens, but the presence of loss remains. If you haven’t yet read the first two articles, you can find them here: Part 1: The Weight of Grief Part 2: Permission to Feel  Susan Guttridge Living Alongside Loss
At first, grief can feel as though it takes up all the space in the room. It fills every corner of thought, every heartbeat, and every pause between breaths. And then, slowly, subtly, life begins to expand around it. You start engaging in old routines again, returning phone calls, making the appointments that once felt meaningless. This isn’t moving on. It’s learning to live alongside loss. It’s Not About Moving on That is worth repeating: this isn’t moving on. Because, grief isn’t something we “get over.” That phrase “moving on” can feel like an erasure, as if healing means letting go of the person or the love, that we’re leaving them behind. But the truth is, moving through grief doesn’t mean we let go of love; rather, it means we learn to carry it differently. When someone we love dies, of course the attachment bond doesn’t dissolve. Research in the field of neuroscience presented by Mary-Frances O’Connor (2022) shows that the same neural networks involved in attachment and caregiving (including the anterior cingulate cortex, insula, and nucleus accumbens), remain active long after loss (O’Connor, 2022). These are the same regions that help us feel closeness and reward in relationships. So, the brain continues to reach for the person: to imagine, to remember, and even to feel them, because those pathways were built over years of connection. So when you find yourself thinking, “I should be moving on by now,” please know that there is nothing pathological about still feeling your loved one’s presence or longing for them. This doesn’t necessarily mean you’re stuck in grief; it means your brain is still doing the sacred work of integrating love and loss. Healing, then, is not “moving on”. More appropriately said, it’s moving with: with memory, with meaning, with an evolving relationship that now lives within you instead of beside you. For me, this realization has been profoundly comforting, because I do still “speak to their memory in my heart.” The connection doesn’t end; it simply changes form. I carry them with me- in quiet moments, in choices made with their influence in mind, and in the love that continues to guide how I move through the world. The Ongoing Presence of Grief Based on my experience, both personal and in my counselling practice, and also from readings on grief, what I have come to learn is that grief doesn’t vanish with time. Rather, it changes shape. In her book The Grieving Brain (2022), O’Connor shows that grief activates the neural networks associated with attachment and reward; the same areas that light up when we long for someone we love. So, in this way, grief is the brain’s way of maintaining connection while trying to adjust to absence. It’s hard work, reconciling love and loss, and this is how love learns to live in new conditions. This is why you might still reach for your phone to text your loved one. Why a scent, a song, or a photograph can bring memories vividly back for a moment. Your brain isn’t confused or struggling to accept reality; it’s remembering. It’s rehearsing connection while slowly leaning into a new truth: that love continues, even in their absence. Over time, the brain learns to carry the bond differently- not by forgetting, but by weaving memory and love into a new form of connection. Learning to Live Alongside Psychologist William Worden described grief as a process of four tasks, not steps to complete, but ongoing adjustments that we perhaps move through many times (2018). They are:
I appreciate this model because it honours personal agency and reminds us that grief is not passive, nor is it a checklist. And, I’m mentioning the model here because the 4th task, finding an enduring connection with the deceased while continuing to move forward with life, reflects what so many people discover: that love doesn’t end, it transforms. Sometimes that looks like lighting a candle, visiting a meaningful place, or writing a letter you never send. Other times it’s even quieter, such as a sense of your loved one’s kindness or humour living on through you. When the Absence Still Hurts There are going to be days when grief’s sharpness returns, no matter how many years have passed, like on anniversaries, holidays, or just inexplicable waves of sadness that hit without warning. One of my earliest losses was my mother’s death when I was a teenager. Years later, when I became a mother myself, those waves of grief returned in unexpected moments: when my baby wouldn’t sleep at night, when I wondered how my mom managed a toddler’s tantrums, or how she coped with a teenager’s eye rolls and desire for distance. The ache came not from forgetting, but from still needing her. When the sharpness of grief returns in these waves, please know that it doesn’t mean you’ve gone backward; it means the bond still matters. And of course it does. When those potentially destabilizing moments come, instead of resisting the ache, would you be willing to try something to widen your capacity to hold both the ache and the life that continues? Imagine these as two rivers flowing side by side: one represents grief, and one represents your life continuing. Each flows at its own pace, and each shapes the other as they flow forward. A Practice of Love and Remembrance If you’d like to explore this coexistence, try this brief practice of reflection: Start by taking a centering breath, inhaling in through your nose, noticing the tickle of air at your nostrils. Then, exhaling out through your mouth, just naturally And, I’d like to invite you to bring to mind the person or loss you’re grieving. As you think of them, notice what arises. Perhaps a specific memory, a sensation in your body, or, perhaps even a bit of resistance. That’s okay, all your experiences are welcome here. I invite you to place a hand over your heart and, if it feels right, say quietly (either aloud or just quietly in your mind), “You’re still part of me. I’m still part of life.” Letting your breath be there, as your anchor, slowly flowing in and out. Allowing the steadiness of your breath to remind you that both love and living move through you, always. Thank you so much for trying that with me. It’s okay if it brought up a lot; grief can look like that. Consider that this practice may be something you’d like to keep practicing in the days and weeks that follow. Closing Thoughts Grief is not a state one passes through and leaves behind, but an ongoing, evolving process that fluctuates in intensity over time. Rather than being a problem to solve, I hope you can come to see grief as a natural and adaptive part of continuing bonds with the person who has died, because these ongoing feelings reflect your persistent love and connection. Grief doesn’t end, and that’s not a flaw in the system. It’s not a state we pass through and leave behind. It’s an evolving process that ebbs and flows across time. It’s a sign that love endures, finding new ways to belong in your life. Rather than something to “get over,” grief is the language of love adapting to new circumstances. When we live alongside loss, we carry our loved one forward. When you’re ready, join me for the next article, “Small Anchors in the Dark,” where we’ll explore ways to find steadiness and moments of peace within the ongoing rhythm of grief. References
Part two in the 5-part series on Grief - Finding Steadiness in Loss This article is the second of a five-part series exploring grief through the lens of neuroscience and healing practices. If you haven’t yet read the first article, here’s a convenient link for you to access it: The Weight of Grief  Image Credit: Marek Piwnicki (Canva) Permission to Feel There’s a moment in grief that can feel hollow; when the tears have stopped, but the ache remains. You might find yourself judging your own reactions, perhaps feeling guilty for crying too much, and then guilty again when you can’t cry at all. Others may tell you, “You just have to feel it,” as if feeling were a switch you could simply turn on or off. But when grief runs deep, the act of feeling can feel impossible. You may not know how to find those emotions anymore, or you may fear that if you truly allow them in, they’ll drown you, as though once you start, you might never stop. This is that tender middle ground where so many people can get stuck; suspended between numbness and feeling, between the wish for relief and the fear of being overwhelmed by the emotional flood. The Physiology of Emotional Suppression Grief is both a psychological and biological process (O’Connor, 2019). When loss overwhelms the nervous system, the body instinctively tries to protect us by dulling sensation. This is referred to as emotional numbing or dissociation, and it’s a form of self-preservation. The problem is, what helps us survive in the short term can make healing harder in the long term. Suppressing emotion keeps the body in a state of tension: the stress hormones don’t complete their natural cycle, and the body doesn’t get the signal that it’s safe again. Research from Dr. Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory helps explain why: when we suppress or avoid emotion, we prevent the necessary discharge that would move the nervous system out of a defensive state (sympathetic fight/flight or dorsal vagal shutdown) and back into regulation (Porges, 2011). But emotional expression, such as crying, shaking, trembling, sighing, and talking, is the body’s way of releasing and returning to regulation. Feeling isn’t emotional weakness; it’s biology. Why Allowing Emotion Heals When we allow emotion to move through the body, we’re actually supporting our nervous system’s ability to return to balance. Neuroimaging studies show that naming and expressing emotion activate the prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain responsible for awareness, reasoning, and emotional regulation). When this area engages, it helps calm the amygdala, which is the brain’s alarm system, always scanning for danger or distress (Ochsner et al., 2004; Lieberman et al., 2007). In other words, when we permit our feelings to exist, when we say “I feel sad,” or “This hurts,” the brain begins to find its balance again, gently restoring a sense of safety within. This simple act of naming emotions acts as a bridge between the limbic system, where raw emotions are generated, and the higher cortical regions, where understanding and meaning are made. You could say that the act of naming emotions is a bridge between chaos and coherence: it gives structure to what feels overwhelming, and helps the nervous system shift from reactivity toward regulation.  Image credit: mactrunk (Canva) When Feeling Still Feels Hard
For some people, even acknowledging emotion doesn’t bring relief right away, and that’s not a failure of effort or awareness. Chronic stress, trauma, or prolonged grief can actually weaken the communication pathways between the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala, making it harder for the brain’s calming system to engage when emotions rise (O’Connor, 2022). When this connection is disrupted, the amygdala continues to send strong distress signals, while the prefrontal cortex struggles to reassure the body that it’s safe. This is why you might understand logically that you’re okay, yet still feel emotionally flooded, numb, or on edge. The nervous system needs repeated, gentle reminders of safety through breath, grounding, compassionate attention, and co-regulation with others to rebuild that bridge (Porges, 2011; Siegel, 2012; Ogden et al., 2006; Coan et al., 2006). Each time you name what you feel and meet it with care, you strengthen that pathway just a little more (Ochsner & Gross, 2005). Over time, the brain learns that emotion can move through without overwhelming you. How to Begin (Gently) If you’ve spent years holding everything in, please know that reconnecting with emotion isn’t something that happens all at once; that would be far too overwhelming for the nervous system. Instead, think of it as emotional stretching: slow, steady, and guided by your own compassionate care. If you feel up for it, try one of these entry points: Body check-in: Notice where emotion might be sitting in your body. Perhaps as a tightness in your throat, heaviness in your chest, or tension in your stomach. You don’t need to fix it. Just breathe into that space and notice what’s there. Name it: Try to catch yourself when you say, “I shouldn’t feel this way.” (“Shoulds” are part of what I call the Deadly MOANS: Must, Ought to, Always, Never, Should. These are words that tend to close us off from what we’re really feeling.) Instead, could you try saying: “Something in me feels sad right now.” That small shift invites compassion rather than resistance, helping the prefrontal cortex (the reasoning part of your brain) stay engaged so emotion can move through more safely. Permission-Giving to Emotion: If tears come, could you bravely let them? Crying releases oxytocin and endorphins, which is the body’s natural soothing agents (Hendriks et al., 2008). This is your nervous system’s way of self-regulating; it is releasing tension so that the stress response can soften back. Each tear signals that emotion is moving, sort of like your body’s way of saying, “I’m finding my way through this.” Safe containment: When emotion begins to swell beyond what feels manageable, the nervous system may interpret it as danger. To steady and ground yourself, find something that signals now, such as the floor beneath your feet, the chair holding your weight, or the warmth of your palm on your chest. Breath in, allowing your out-breath to lengthen just a little, and say to yourself “This is emotion, not emergency. I’m safe enough to feel a small part of this.” This grounding practice aids in containment, which refers to giving your nervous system enough steadiness and support to feel an emotion without being overwhelmed by it. Containment isn’t shutting feelings down but rather about helping your body stay anchored so the emotion doesn’t have to sweep you away. These small gestures activate the vagus nerve and the parasympathetic nervous system, harnessing the body’s built-in pathways for calming and emotional integration. Closing Reflection Grief can only move at the speed of safety, and there is no timeline for healing. When you give yourself permission to feel, even for just a few seconds, you’re letting your nervous system know that it’s safe to hold both the pain and the love that created the pain. You can honour the ache of loss while still cherishing the moments of joy, laughter, and connection that came before it. And slowly, through this permission, your system begins to trust life again. You start to reclaim the fullness of being alive — one breath, one feeling, one moment at a time. When you feel ready, join me for the next article in this series: Living Alongside Loss, where I’ll share information on how grief reshapes identity and how we begin finding meaning in a world forever changed. Thank you for reading. References
Part One in the 5-part series Grief and the Body: Finding Steadiness in LossSeries Preface Grief is both universal and deeply personal. It arrives uninvited, rearranges what we thought we knew about love, destabilizes our sense of the world, and leaves us searching for solid ground in a world that suddenly feels unfamiliar. In this five-part series, I’ll share what happens in the brain and body during grief: why it can feel so heavy, so confusing, and so endless, and how understanding these inner workings can bring both compassion and relief. Drawing from neuroscience, attachment theory, somatic psychology, and mindfulness, these writings offer both insight and experiential practices that support healing. You’ll learn how grief engages the same neural pathways as physical pain, how emotion helps the brain integrate loss, and how small moments of grounding and connection can gradually restore a sense of safety. I’m not sharing this as a roadmap for “getting over” grief, because grief isn’t something to overcome. Rather, it’s something we learn to move with. I hope this series can serve as your compassionate companion as you walk alongside grief. One breath, one memory, one moment of steadiness at a time. Each article blends reflection, psychoeducation, and simple, body-based practices to help you understand and support your own healing process. My hope is that these writings remind you that your grief, in all its complexity, is not weakness or brokenness: It’s love finding its way forward in a changed world.
IntroductionMy journey through life has included many seasons of grief. Some arriving as new losses, others as lingering, persistent memories of earlier losses. It’s easy to believe that avoiding grief, like through distraction, busyness, or emotional suppression, might feel safer. Because sometimes coming up against the full reality of loss can feel like too much. However, my work as a Counsellor mandates that I do the work of healing so that I can show up with a regulated presence for others struggling with their own waves of grief. This year, as summer transitioned to autumn, a new season of loss rolled in, and I found myself not only grieving again but also sitting with loved ones grieving our shared sudden loss. As I sat with my own emotions, I felt a deep pull to share what I’ve learned over the years in hopes that it might help others navigate the waves of emotion that accompany loss. In the following 5 articles, I hope to shed light on some of the challenges you may be working through. I’ll offer nutshells of information and short guided meditations to assist you in being present with the emotions of loss. I hope this information helps you in finding a new footing. If you are going through a loss right now, please remember that we are social beings, and we have a great capacity for healing in the context of safe, nurturing relationships: if it’s an option for you, please consider working with a mental health professional as you grieve. This series is written in honour of my cousin, Chris Di Staulo, and his family as they move through their profound grief as well as for all those who struggle similarly, stumbling through the dark nights of grief to reconcile their loss and find new footing in the world.  The Weight of Grief Grief feels heavy. It’s a weight we feel emotionally and physically; it’s a weight on our thoughts and a weight on our hearts. And, that weight runs even deeper, at a biological level. When we lose someone or something deeply woven into our sense of safety, belonging, or purpose, our brain and body react as though we’ve been injured. Because in many ways, we have. The Brain in Grief Neuroscience research shows that the same neural pathways that register physical pain also light up during emotional loss (Eisenberger & Lieberman, 2004). When we ache for someone, as poetic as that sounds, it really isn’t a metaphor — it’s the brain’s pain network lighting up. The anterior cingulate cortex (ACC) and insula (two regions involved in processing both physical and emotional pain) become especially active, much like they would if there were a wound on the body. The ACC monitors distress and signals when something important is missing, while the insula helps us register the internal sensations of that pain, such as heaviness in the chest, abdominal discomfort, a lump in the throat, and so on. It’s why heartbreak feels physically real. Our body and brain grieve together. Grief also disrupts what neuroscientist Mary-Frances O’Connor (2019) calls the brain’s “map of safety.” This map represents the brain’s learned sense of closeness, an internal model of where loved ones are in relation to us. When a person dies, the brain continues to hold their representation, still expecting their presence. The amygdala’s threat-detection system becomes more reactive, while the prefrontal cortex (the part of the brain responsible for reasoning, emotional regulation, and perspective-taking) slows, leaving us disoriented.Over time, the work of grieving is the gradual updating of that internal map: of learning to navigate a world changed by loss while carrying forward the enduring bond of love. This shift explains why grief can leave us feeling foggy, disoriented, and completely exhausted. Forgetfulness, low motivation, and difficulty concentrating aren’t signs of psychological weakness or avoidance. They are signs that your brain is working overtime to adapt to a world that no longer makes sense, acclimatizing to a world that’s changed. At the same time, the brain’s dopamine-driven “seeking system”, which fuels attachment and motivation, keeps searching for what’s been lost, that person or situation that once brought comfort. It’s what drives those fleeting moments when you still expect to hear their voice, see their name light up on your phone, or glance toward the door thinking they might walk in. This neurological mismatch, knowing someone is gone while still feeling they’re just out of reach, is what makes early grief so profoundly disorienting (O’Connor, 2022). The brain is trying to reconcile what the heart already knows. Please know that if you’ve been feeling unlike yourself lately (for example, distracted, numb, or irritable), this isn’t you “doing grief wrong.” It’s your nervous system learning to live in a world that’s been rearranged. Why it Feels Like the World Tilted Grief alters our perception. Colours appear faded. Sounds seem distant. That which once felt ordinary comes to feel foreign. This sensory dulling, referred to as “emotional numbing”, is another protective mechanism. The body narrows focus to conserve energy while the nervous system learns to live in this new, unfamiliar territory. It’s not that you’ve stopped caring; it’s that your entire being is working to survive the absence. Even time itself can feel altered: the hours stretch, the days seem to blur together. You may find yourself thinking, “I should be doing better by now”. But, healing from grief isn’t a linear process; it’s cyclical, wave-like. The brain and body move between engaging with the pain and stepping back to rest from it. That oscillation, as disconcerting as it may feel, is how adaptation happens. The same brain that grieves also heals (O’Connor, 2022). Over time and with care, new connections form, allowing love, meaning, and even moments of peace to return. The Weight You Feel As the Love That Remains The ache in your chest, the exhaustion in your limbs and slump of your shoulders, the tears that come without warning- I don’t view these as symptoms to get rid of, but instead as expressions of love metabolizing loss. Your body is remembering; your nervous system is reorganizing around an absence. This is the slow, sacred work of mourning. Sometimes, people fear that if they heal, they’ll forget; that moving forward means leaving their loved one behind. Because of these often unspoken beliefs, it can feel as though remaining in pain is the only way to stay connected, the only way to honour what was lost. Please know that healing doesn’t erase love; it integrates it. As grief moves through you, it’s helping your system integrate the reality of loss. Not to forget, but rather to rewire connection in a new form. Over time, the pain that once swept you under becomes a steady current you can move with. The love remains: flowing differently, but still carrying you forward. Healing isn’t about leaving your loved one behind; it’s about allowing love to take new form. One that lives in memory, meaning, and how you continue to carry their presence within you.  A Grounding Practice for the Heaviness If you’re reading this and feeling the weight of grief in your body, the ache, the fatigue, the fog, I invite you to take a moment to pause. You don’t need to force any of those sensations to shift. Just bring your attention to what is present in your body at this moment. What sensations do you notice? Not trying to force any of those sensations to shift. Just bring your attention to what is present in your body in this moment. With kind curiousity, notice where the weight of grief is sitting. Perhaps in your chest, your throat, your shoulders, or your stomach. Just noticing. Shift your awareness now to notice the support of your body in the chair, on the floor, or on the bed. Allow your awareness to rest here. Noticing how your body is being held, supported, where the bits of comfort are. Take a deep, slow breath in through your nose, noticing the tickle of air at your nostrils. Then, exhale through your mouth, just naturally. Allowing the weight to fall just a little closer to the earth. No need to release it all, perhaps just softening the edges, allowing 1 % to shift. And, with your breath slow and deep, could you name one small thing that connects you to the world around you? …perhaps a colour you can see in the room around you, a sound you can hear, or a scent that’s in the air. Just noticing with your senses, something that quietly anchors you. Even in the midst of pain, these small moments of presence begin to reawaken the circuits of safety and connection in the brain. One breath, one grounding, one moment at a time. This is how healing begins. When you feel ready, the next article explores how to gently make space for your emotions and offers practical ways to allow emotion to move through you with a compassionate presence. Part 2: Permission to Feel Part 3: Living Alongside Loss Part 4: Small Anchors for Dark Moments Part 5: A Continuing Connection References
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AuthorSusan Guttridge is a trauma-informed Master level Counsellor with the clinical designation of Canadian Certified Counsellor (CCPA). She has 20+ years experience providing individual and group therapy. Archives
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