On Fridays, I often find myself thinking about the quiet corners we all need -especially in grief. Spaces where you don’t have to explain why you’re still sad, or why a random song in the grocery store aisle made you cry. Places where you can just show up as you are, tired or talkative or somewhere in between.

That’s the heart behind The Grief Table Private Support Group on Facebook. It’s a small, tender space where grieving people gather to share their hearts. Sometimes I post longer teachings or reflections, but most of the beauty happens in the everyday: people sharing memories, naming the hard days, posting photos, or simply saying, “This is where I am right now.”

You can be as involved or as quiet as you want there. Some folks comment often, some mostly read. A few people go live and share what’s on their hearts. Others never post at all, but tell me it helps just to know they’re sitting in a circle of people who “get it.” There’s no pressure to perform or be “inspirational” - just a place to be human in your grief.

If having a gentler corner of the internet to sit with other grieving hearts sounds comforting, you’re welcome to pull up a chair here:
👉 Join The Grief Table Private Facebook Support Group

With you at the table,
Jamie

You can find all my gathered resources here: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

Some days, it can feel hard to know where to start with a grief journal. If you’re staring at a blank page, here are a few questions that might gently open a door instead of demanding answers. You can take one at a time, or just sit with the one that tugs at you most.

You don’t have to write full paragraphs if that feels like too much. A few words, a list, or even a single sentence is enough.

1. “Where is my grief living in my body today?”
You might describe sensations, tightness, heaviness, or even numbness. If that part of your body could speak, what would it say?

2. “What do I wish I could tell them about this season of my life?”
Imagine you have five honest minutes with the person you lost. What would you want them to know about who you are now, what’s hard, and what you’re carrying?

3. “What am I tired of carrying alone?”
List the things - big or small - that feel too heavy to hold all by yourself right now. Is there one piece you wish you could set down, even just for today?

4. “Where do I still feel connected to them, even in tiny ways?”
Think about songs, smells, places, phrases, inside jokes, habits, or everyday moments where their presence brushes up against your life now.

If all you do is copy one of these questions into your journal and breathe with it, that counts as honoring your grief. You’re allowed to move slowly with this.

If part of you wants more company in this season, you can browse resources for therapy, groups, and other supports I’ve gathered here:
→ The Grief Table Resources

And if you’d like more gentle words to sit with on darker evenings, you can curl up with the archive of my grief letters and practices here:
→ The Grief Table Substack Archive

With Care,

Jamie

One of the questions I’m asked most often is: “Where do I even start if I’m ready for more support?”

I remember how overwhelming it felt to try to Google my way through grief while barely having the energy to do the basics. If that’s you right now, I want to offer a softer doorway in - a few trusted places to begin, so you don’t have to start from scratch.

Here are some of the most common questions I hear, and the links I share most often:

1. “How do I find a grief therapist near me?”
If you’re wanting one-on-one support with someone who understands loss, this directory can be a helpful starting point. You can enter your location and filter specifically for grief support:
→ Find a grief therapist

2. “I’ve heard about somatic therapy. How do I find someone who works with the body?”
For many of us, grief lives in the body - tight chest, frozen shoulders, buzzing anxiety. This directory can help you look for somatic and trauma-informed practitioners in your area:
→ Find a somatic therapist near you

3. “I think I might need a group. Where do I find one?”
Sometimes we need to sit in a circle (even a virtual one) with people who “get it” without a lot of explanation. This link lets you search for grief groups and group therapy options by location:
→ Find grief groups and group therapy

4. “Is there online therapy that might be covered by insurance?”
If in-person options are limited or your nervous system feels safer at home, online therapy can be a gentler way to receive support. This link walks you through coverage options for online sessions:
→ Explore online therapy covered by insurance

None of these are “musts.” They’re simply options - little lamps along the path, in case you’re feeling around in the dark for what might help next. You’re allowed to click one, save it for later, or do nothing today and just breathe. All of that counts as taking care of your grieving self.

With you in this,
Jamie

Lately, I’ve been noticing a particular kind of tiredness in my own grief. It’s not just “I need a nap” tired. It’s the kind of exhaustion that settles into my bones and my brain, where even simple things feel like too much. Some days, answering a text, emptying the dishwasher, or deciding what to eat can feel like climbing a mountain.

I’ve learned that grief can flood the body with stress, and stress is exhausting. For me, that has looked like foggy thinking, forgetting small things, a heavy chest, and a body that feels heavier than it used to. I can sleep and still wake up tired. Knowing that grief can affect sleep, appetite, the immune system, and our energy has helped me understand that I’m not “lazy” or “failing” - my body is carrying a lot. If you’d like a gentle, concrete overview of how grief can show up physically, this article from Marie Curie talks about common symptoms like tightness in the chest, breathlessness, and deep fatigue in a very compassionate way: Physical symptoms of grief – Marie Curie.

When I’m in this kind of grief exhaustion, I try to move more gently with myself. Sometimes that means lowering the bar for the day: fewer tasks, more rest, softer expectations. It might look like a slow walk instead of a workout, toast instead of a full meal, or saying, “I can’t do this today,” and trusting that that is a wise response, not a character flaw. Little grounding practices - like a few slow breaths, stepping outside for fresh air, or wrapping up in a favorite blanket - can offer small sips of comfort when I don’t have a lot to give. There’s a piece from Grief Stories that describes this “grief fatigue” and the many kinds of rest we might need; you might like it if you want to explore this more: Grief, Exhaustion & Rest – Grief Stories.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself, I want you to know that I’m holding your tired heart with a lot of tenderness. You are not making this up. You are not alone in it. If your exhaustion feels scary or overwhelming, it can help to bring it to a doctor, a therapist, or a trusted grief support space and say, “This is where I am. I’m so tired.” You deserve care that meets you where you are, not where anyone thinks you “should” be by now.

If today all you can do is read this and take one gentle breath, that is enough. Truly.

When/if you’re ready, you can explore more of my grief support letters here:
→ Newsletter archive: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

And a small collection of resources - therapists, books, and private groups - lives here if that would feel supportive:
→ Grief resources & support: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

With love and gentle company,

Jamie

If that’s been happening for you, you’re not making it up.
Grief can be really uncomfortable for people. Sometimes they don’t know what to say. Sometimes your loss wakes up something in them they aren’t ready to look at.

But their pulling away is not about your value.
You are not too much.
You are not doing this wrong.
You are not a burden.

One of the hardest parts of grief is trying not to carry other people’s reactions on top of your own pain. You’re already holding so much.

If today feels heavy, I’m glad you’re here. You don’t have to do this alone.

You can read past newsletters anytime in the archive: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

If you’re looking for additional support, resources, or ways to stay connected, you can find everything here: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

Sending comfort your way,

Jamie

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about something that comes up in therapy spaces all the time, but doesn’t always feel very lived-in when it’s talked about.

The “window of tolerance.”

It’s this idea that there’s a range where our nervous system can hold what’s happening - where things feel manageable enough to stay present, to feel, to respond.

And then there are the edges of that window.

Above it can feel like overwhelm. Anxiety. Everything moving too fast, too loud, too much.

Below it can feel like shutting down. Numbness. Disconnection. Like drifting somewhere far away from yourself.

Grief, at least in my experience, doesn’t stay neatly inside any of those places.

It moves.

After my son died, I didn’t have language for any of this.

I just remember how inconsistent everything felt.

Moments where the pain was so sharp it took my breath away, followed by moments where I couldn’t feel much of anything at all. And somehow both felt equally unsettling.

There was this quiet wondering underneath it all -
how can both of these be true?

What I’ve come to understand over time, both personally and through the work I do now, is that this movement… it wasn’t random.

My nervous system was shifting in and out of what it could hold.

Sometimes there was capacity.
Sometimes there wasn’t.

And it changed constantly.

The idea of a “window” can sound like something steady, something to stay inside of.

But grief hasn’t felt steady.

It’s felt more like stretching - like the edges themselves are being tested and reshaped over time.

There are still moments that feel like too much.

There are still moments that feel far away.

And there are also moments now where I can notice what’s happening while I’m inside of it, which wasn’t always the case before.

What’s changed for me hasn’t been about keeping everything regulated or contained.

It’s been in the noticing.

Noticing when things start to speed up.
Noticing when everything goes quiet.

Noticing what helps me come back, even slightly.

Sometimes that looks like something simple, like putting my feet on the ground and pausing for a second.

Sometimes it looks like stepping away without needing to explain why.

Sometimes it’s reaching for something steady - a routine, a texture, a familiar space.

And sometimes it’s just recognizing, “this is where I am right now.”

One thing that keeps coming up in both my own life and in the spaces I hold is how much pressure there can be to process, to make meaning, to stay connected to feelings in a way that feels productive.

But there have been many moments where reflection wasn’t accessible.

Where the body needed something different first.

Something quieter. Slower. More grounding.

And over time, it’s started to make sense why.

I still move in and out of that window.

There are days where everything feels closer to the surface, and days where there’s a little more space around it.

Not in a linear way.

Not in a way that feels finished.

Just… differently.

There’s a kind of capacity that has grown, but it doesn’t erase the moments that still feel like too much.

They coexist.

Lately I’ve been holding this more gently -

the idea that maybe it’s less about staying within a certain range, and more about learning the shape of my own edges.

Where they soften.
Where they tighten.
What helps them widen, even a little.

And how all of that continues to shift.

If this is something you’ve felt too, that back and forth, that movement between intensity and distance… you’re not alone in that experience.

It’s something I keep coming back to, both in my own grief and in the way I sit with others inside of theirs.

Still learning it.
Still noticing it.
Still inside of it.

If you’re curious to explore the “window of tolerance” a bit more from a stress-and-nervous-system angle, this Psychology Today article offers a grounded, accessible walk-through of the idea: What Is the Window of Tolerance, and Why Is It So Important?.psychologytoday

With you in it,
Jamie

If you’d like to keep exploring grief, nervous system stuff, or just have a place to land when things feel a bit much, I’ve gathered everything in one spot:

• All of my current offerings, gatherings, and grief resources live here: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

• Past letters and reflections (if you want to wander back through the archive) are here: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

Grief and PTSD can feel really big and clinical on paper, but for most of us they show up as “Why am I like this?” So I want to talk with you about it the way I wish someone had talked with me.

Over the last few years, between my own losses, work with my grief therapist, and a lot of late‑night reading and trainings, I’ve learned something that helped me breathe a little easier: grief and trauma are different, but they often live in the same body. Grief is the ache of missing someone and learning to live in a world without them. PTSD is what can happen when the way they died or what you lived through overwhelms your nervous system and it gets stuck in survival mode.

In real life, that can look like this: part of you is simply missing your person, and another part feels like it’s still bracing for impact. Maybe you have moments where you can remember them with tenderness, and other moments where one image, one sound, or one date slams you back into the worst day of your life. You might notice nightmares, a racing heart, feeling jumpy, wanting to avoid certain places or conversations, or going totally numb and disconnected. If that’s you, it doesn’t mean you’re “grieving wrong.” It means your body is still trying to protect you.

Something my therapist said that stuck with me was, “Your nervous system doesn’t know this is over yet.” That helped me stop fighting myself so hard. The flashbacks, the panic, the sudden shutdowns - they weren’t proof that I was failing. They were evidence that my body loved my person and genuinely believed it had to stay on high alert to keep me safe. That doesn’t make the symptoms easy, but it does make them a little less shameful.

Here are a few small things I’ve tried, or that I use with the people I support, that might be worth experimenting with - no pressure, just options on the table:

• Grounding in the “right now.”
  When my mind is replaying the worst moments, I gently bring my attention to the room I’m in: naming a few things I see, hear, and feel. “I see the window, I hear the refrigerator, I feel my feet on the floor.” It’s not about pretending the past didn’t happen. It’s about reminding my body, “This second is different. Right now I’m here.”

• Letting one safe person close.
  After loss, especially traumatic loss, it can feel safer to pull away from everyone. I’ve learned that I don’t need a whole crowd - I need one or two people who can be present without trying to fix me. Sometimes that looks like texting, “I’m having a hard grief day, can you just sit with me on FaceTime?” or sending a voice memo instead of finding perfect words.

• Tiny doses of movement.
  There were days when my body felt frozen or buzzing. Big workouts were too much, but small movement helped: a slow walk around the block, stretching while the kettle boils, rocking in a chair. Little bits of rhythm can give all that pent‑up energy somewhere to go.

• Making intentional space for grief itself.
  Trauma can take up so much room that grief - the love, the remembering - gets pushed to the edges. Setting aside even ten minutes to light a candle, write to my son, or listen to a song that connects me to him has helped me feel less like I’m just battling symptoms and more like I’m also tending to the relationship that still matters so much.

  

  There are also times when “DIY” tools just aren’t enough, and that’s not a failure - it’s a sign that what you’ve lived through is a lot. If you find yourself feeling unsafe most of the time, using substances to get through, or thinking about not wanting to be here anymore, that’s your system waving a big flag that it needs more support. Trauma‑informed therapists, grief counselors, groups, and crisis lines exist because being human is simply too much to carry alone sometimes.

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in these words, I just want you to know: you’re not dramatic, broken, or behind. You’re a person whose world has been torn open, doing your best to live inside a nervous system that’s trying very hard to protect you. You’re allowed to ask for help. You’re allowed to need a lot of help. And you’re allowed to take this at the pace your body and your grief can manage - not the pace the world expects.

Warmly,
Jamie

If today’s Toolbox stirred something in you, you are not alone in that. You are welcome to linger with these ideas at your own pace and come back to them as many times as you need.

You can explore the full archive of Friday Toolbox newsletters here, with past reflections, practices, and gentle education on grief:
The Grief Table Friday Toolbox Archive

For workshops, resources, social channels, and more ways to stay connected to this community, everything is gathered for you in one place:
All The Grief Table Links and Resources

A lot of us worry, quietly, that we’re going to lose pieces of our person as time moves on. Their voice. Their laugh. The way they smelled when we hugged them. The tiny things that made them who they were. It’s such a common fear, and it makes sense. We didn’t choose this distance.

But here’s the thing we’re practicing together in this community: our connection to them doesn’t end, it just changes shape. We’re learning how to stay in relationship with someone who isn’t here in the old way anymore.

Sometimes that looks really simple and really human:

• Letting ourselves remember what we learned from them, even if it hurts a little.

• Noticing which of their values are still alive in how we move through the world now.

• Remembering the history we share, the inside jokes, the places that feel like “ours.”

• Pausing to ask, “If they could weigh in, how would they want to be remembered in this season of my life?”

And then, maybe most importantly, not doing that alone.

We can tell the story of that one ridiculous road trip to someone who never met them. We can send a voice note to a friend about something they used to say. We can say their name out loud at the table and let the moment be a little awkward and a little holy at the same time.

Connection now isn’t about holding every detail perfectly. It’s about letting their love and their impact keep moving through us, in small, ordinary ways, as we keep living.

If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear one thing you learned from your person that you still carry with you today.

Hello fellow grievers,

On some grief days, reading feels impossible and silence feels too loud. Those are often the nights I reach for a movie or show that feels like a soft blanket instead of an emotional rollercoaster.

There is actually some research behind that instinct. Watching familiar or comforting TV can act as a kind of “social surrogate,” helping us feel less lonely and more connected when we are depleted. Gentle, predictable stories can give our nervous systems a break from constant vigilance and offer a place to cry, laugh, or simply exist without needing to explain anything to anyone.

Here are a few kinds of screen‑stories many grieving people tell me have helped:

• Animated or family movies that hold grief and love together in a tender way, like Coco or Inside Out, which explore memory, loss, and continuing bonds without being relentlessly heavy.

• Quiet, character‑driven films about healing over time, such as The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel or Rabbit Hole, which let us see grief named instead of ignored. One series I come back to again and again is After Life (Netflix), created by Ricky Gervais. It is dark and imperfect and very human, and it names grief out loud in a way that has made me feel strangely less alone some nights

• Comfort shows we already know by heart, where we can drop in and out without following a plot. Light comedies and gentle dramas give background company and moments of real laughter when we thought we had none left.

We do not have to watch anything “important” or “deep” to make it count. The question I ask myself is: “Does this story leave my body feeling a bit softer or more tightened by the time the credits roll?”

One tiny practice you might try this week: choose a movie or episode that feels safe and pair it with something small that comforts your body too (a warm drink, a weighted blanket, your pet next to you). Let the story keep you company, not fix you.

If there is a movie or show that has been a quiet lifeline in your grief, I would love to hear it. Your recommendation might be exactly what someone else needs on a very hard night.

With you in front of whatever screen you can manage,
Jamie

P.S. You can wander through past Friday Grief Toolbox letters here: The Grief Table archive. For groups, gatherings, and more grief supports, everything I am holding right now lives here: The Grief Table links.

Hi friends,

Since my loss, my nervous system has often felt like it is stuck on high alert. A date, a sound, or a memory can leave my whole body buzzing, even when I am just standing in my kitchen. One of the few things that has consistently helped is very simple: getting my body in direct contact with the actual ground.

You will sometimes hear this called “earthing” or “grounding” – bare feet on grass or soil, skin in water, or using grounded mats and sheets that connect you electrically to the earth. There is a small but growing body of research suggesting that this kind of grounding can calm the stress response, support sleep, and reduce pain and inflammation for some people.

A few highlights:

• A medical review in the Journal of Inflammation Research found that grounding appears to improve sleep, reduce pain, reduce stress, and shift the nervous system away from constant fight‑or‑flight.

• Studies of people sleeping on grounded mattress pads showed changes in cortisol (our main stress hormone) toward a more natural day–night rhythm, along with better‑reported sleep and less pain.

• Mainstream sources like WebMD and Cleveland Clinic now summarize potential benefits of earthing for stress, mood, sleep, and inflammation, while also being honest that more research is needed.

If you want to peek at some of the science yourself, here are a few starting points your brain can chew on:

• Medical review of grounding and inflammation/sleep/pain:
  https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC4378297/

• Study on grounding during sleep and cortisol patterns:
  https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/15650465/

• Overview of grounding benefits (WebMD):
  https://www.webmd.com/balance/grounding-benefits

• Plain‑language summary of earthing’s effects on stress and the nervous system:
  https://health.clevelandclinic.org/earthing

For me, this is not just theory. My family and I go outside to our yard or nearby green spaces and literally put our bare feet on the ground together. Sometimes it is just a few quiet minutes, each of us in our own thoughts, feeling the grass or the dirt under our soles. It has become a simple way to check back in with our bodies when everything feels too big.

A few years ago, I also bought a grounding mat for my mattress. I am not someone who believes every wellness claim I see, but over time I noticed I slept more deeply and woke up feeling a little less “wired” on the mornings after I used it regularly. It does not take away my grief, but it seems to soften the edges of stress on my body.

If you are curious to experiment, you might try:

• Standing or sitting barefoot on grass, soil, or even plain concrete for a few minutes. Notice the texture and temperature under your feet.

• Lying on the ground on a blanket and letting as much of your body as possible rest against the earth.

• If you have access and it feels safe, letting your feet or hands rest in a river, lake, or ocean for a few minutes and really feeling the contact.

• Exploring a grounding mat or sheet if outdoor access is limited, knowing that some early studies suggest benefits for sleep, pain, and stress.

You absolutely do not have to believe every claim about earthing for it to be worth trying. For many of us, it is simply one more gentle, low‑risk tool to support our bodies while our hearts are carrying something enormous.

If you try any of this this week, I would love to hear what you notice, even if the answer is, “It just felt good to stand in the yard for a minute.”

With you, feet on the ground and heart still learning this new landscape,
Jamie

P.S. You can wander through past Friday Grief Toolbox letters here: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

For groups, gatherings, and more grief supports, everything I am holding right now lives here: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

P.P.S. A few people ask about the kinds of grounding supports my family and I use. Here are two options similar to what I use and what others I know have found helpful:
Grounding pad for bed: https://tr.ee/SEqLf4
Grounding mat: https://tr.ee/dOdUvc

What kind of spot feels most realistic for you to try a few minutes of grounding this week - yard, sidewalk, park, water, or something else?

What Grief Keeps Teaching Me

Grief has changed absolutely everything for me.
The way I wake up, the way I move through the day, the way I look at people, the way I see myself. Nothing feels simple anymore.

As a mom, one of the clearest things grief has shown me is that my tears make sense. I’ve never looked at myself and thought, “I should be over this.” I’ve always known there is no “over” when it comes to my child. The tears are just part of loving someone who isn’t here in the way they should be. Sometimes they surprise me. Sometimes they’re quiet and private. Sometimes they hit out of nowhere. But they’re not a problem to fix - they’re part of the bond.

Grief has also given me a very low tolerance for anything fake or shallow. Small talk is hard. Pretending I’m “fine” is exhausting. I don’t have the energy to sit in spaces where we skip past the real stuff. I’ve learned I need people who can handle the quiet, the awkward pauses, and the honest answer when they ask, “How are you?” even if the answer isn’t neat.

My body has its own way of remembering, too. Certain dates sneak up on me. Certain songs, smells, or places flip a switch I can’t control. I get tired, heavy, scattered, and instead of wondering what’s wrong with me, I’m learning to pay attention. Sometimes that looks like canceling plans, taking a nap, or stepping outside just to breathe and let my nervous system catch up.

Grief has shown me who my people are.
The ones who keep checking in long after the flowers stopped.
The ones who don’t try to fix it, but refuse to disappear.
The ones who can sit with my silence, or my tears, or my dark humor, and still stay.

Those patient, steady souls feel like home to me now.

And here’s another thing I keep bumping into: I’m not “moving on.” That phrase doesn’t fit. I’m learning how to move forward with my child carried in a different way-sometimes close and tender, sometimes heavy and complicated. Some days that feels like absolute heartbreak. Other days it feels like a quiet little thread of love woven through my day. All of it belongs.

Because it’s Friday, I think of this space as a little toolbox - a quick check‑in at the end of the week. Today’s “tools” are pretty simple: permission, validation, and a reminder that you’re not the only one trying to figure this out.

You have permission to still be sad.
You have permission to still be tired.
You have permission to still be learning what grief is doing to your heart.

Pull Up a Chair

If you’re reading this and it doesn’t feel too overwhelming, I’d love to hear from you:

• One thing grief has taught you about yourself

• One thing grief has taught you about other people

• One thing grief has taught you about love

Share whatever you feel comfortable with.
I picture this like we’re all sitting around the same table, passing our stories back and forth. Even when our losses are different, it helps to know we’re not the only ones trying to carry something this heavy.

Much Love,

Jamie

PS: If you ever want to sit at this table a little longer, you can always wander through the newsletter archive and revisit past stories and tools here: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive. And if you’re looking for more grief resources, groups, and things I genuinely love and use, I’ve gathered them all in one place for you: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

Hi friend,

There are days when grief feels like a house we never asked to move into.
Rooms we did not choose. Hallways we did not design. Doors we are not ready to open yet.

Many of us learn pretty quickly that diving straight into the deepest parts of our pain can feel impossible. Something in us pulls back. We skim the surface. We go numb. We tell ourselves, “If I really let this in all at once, I might not make it through.”

And maybe that is not a failure at all. Maybe that is a kind of wisdom our hearts carry for us.

So many messages around us say we should move toward acceptance as fast as we can. Make meaning. Find closure. “Process” it and keep going. When that does not happen, it is easy to feel like we are stuck, behind, or somehow doing grief wrong.

But if we are honest, most of us do not move through loss in straight lines. We inch our way in. We test the water with our toes. We step forward and then back away again. We let ourselves go numb when it is too much. Our bodies often know when our hearts need time to believe what has happened.

We cannot jump from having them here to fully understanding that they are gone.
That kind of goodbye takes longer than anyone prepared us for.

Sometimes it looks like this:

• we touch one memory and quickly set it down

• we walk into a room, smell something familiar, and suddenly have to leave

• we feel fine for a moment and then a small detail tears us open again

It can feel confusing. Are we healing? Are we avoiding? Are we making any progress at all?

Maybe progress looks less like “I am over this now” and more like “I can stand in this one room of my grief for a few breaths longer than I could last year.” Maybe it is being able to say their name out loud with someone we trust. Or finally opening a drawer we have not been able to touch. Or realizing we can remember a certain moment without collapsing in the same way.

Grief is such a layered loss. It is not just the person. It is the life we had with them. The future we pictured. The version of ourselves that existed when they were still here. Touring all of that is too much to do in one visit. It makes sense that we need to go slowly.

We might spend weeks camped out in one “room” of this house. Then something shifts and we notice another door we are willing to crack open. A memory. A feeling. A conversation we were not ready for before.

None of this has to be rushed. Our hearts are allowed to take their time.

If today all we can do is sit in the hallway and breathe, that counts.
If all we can manage is touching the frame of the door before walking away, that counts too.
If we find ourselves laughing in one moment and sobbing in the next, that is still part of the same love.

We do not have to see every piece of this loss at once. We are not required to be ready for all of it today. Little by little, as we are able, more comes into view. And even when it feels like we are the only ones who understand this house, there are others finding their way through similar rooms.

You are not the only one pacing the halls at strange hours, wondering if you are doing any of this right. You are in good, tender company.

With you, one room at a time,
Jamie

P.S. If it feels supportive to have more words and company for your grief, you can spend time with past Friday Grief Toolbox letters here: The Grief Table archive.
All of my current groups, offerings, and resources live here, if and when you want them: The Grief Table links.

When someone you love dies, it’s not only your heart that breaks. The life you recognized, the roles you held, the way you understood yourself and your future can all shift in ways you didn’t expect. Everything that once felt steady can suddenly feel uncertain.

You might find yourself missing the version of you who moved through the world a little more easily. The one who laughed without thinking, who didn’t carry this constant heaviness. And now, you’re here - trying to make sense of who you are in a life that looks different than it once did.

If this resonates, you’re not alone. So many grieving people experience this sense of disconnection from themselves. It can show up in your relationships, your body, your emotions, even in the way you see yourself.

This week’s Friday Grief Toolbox is about that tender truth - that alongside grieving the person you lost, you may also be grieving the version of you who existed before the loss.

And that deserves care, too.

With you in all of it,
Jamie

P.S. If you want to explore more, you can find the full archive of Friday Grief Toolbox posts here: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

And all of my groups, resources, and offerings gathered in one place here: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

One of the hardest parts of grief isn’t just the loss itself. It’s what comes after, when everything keeps moving and we realize how alone we feel inside it.

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that shows up here. Not just being by ourselves, but being surrounded by people and still feeling like no one quite understands the shape of what we’re carrying. Like we’re speaking a language that used to be shared, but somehow isn’t anymore.

We look around at the people in our lives, the ones who love us, the ones who try, and we can feel both grateful and deeply alone at the same time. Because even when care is present, understanding isn’t always.

And it’s not always about anything dramatic. It builds quietly.

It’s the message that doesn’t come.
The check-in that used to happen but doesn’t anymore.
The way certain names are spoken less, or not at all.
The way the world keeps its rhythm while something in ours has completely changed.

We can find ourselves wondering how it’s possible to feel so separate while still being so connected on the surface.

Over time, many of us begin to notice something else too. That this distance isn’t always about love. It’s about capacity. About how grief asks people to sit with things that can feel overwhelming, unfamiliar, or even frightening. And not everyone knows how to stay close to that.

So we adapt. We carry it quietly in certain spaces. We translate parts of ourselves when we need to. And we keep moving through a world that doesn’t quite mirror back what we’re experiencing.

And then, sometimes, we find moments where that shifts.

Where we don’t have to explain.
Where the weight of it is recognized without words.
Where something in us exhales because, for a moment, we are not the only ones holding it in quite the same way.

Those moments don’t take the grief away. But they soften the loneliness around it.

And maybe that’s part of what we’re all doing here. Finding ways to be in this, together, even when so much of it feels unshared.

With you in this,
Jamie

P.S. If you want to explore more reflections like this, you can find all the archived grief support newsletters here: https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

And all of my groups, resources, and spaces are gathered here: https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

Most of us have that date on the calendar that makes our stomach drop when we see it coming - Mother’s Day, graduations, birthdays, death days, anniversaries, all of it. It’s so normal in grief to feel the build‑up long before the day actually arrives.

I’m in this with you. My own circled dates are coming up too - my birthday, Father’s Day, and my son’s birthday. I’m writing this as someone also trying to figure out how to move toward those days without completely bracing every second.

One thing that can help (a little) is making a loose, very human plan ahead of time. Not a perfect plan, just enough of a framework so you’re not deciding everything from inside the hardest feelings.

1. Your “bare minimum” plan

Before the day gets here, ask yourself:
“What is my floor for this day? What am I not going to force myself to do?”

You might decide things like:

• “I don’t have to answer every text or call.”

• “I don’t have to go to every event I’m invited to.”

• “I don’t have to make small talk if my grief feels too big.”

You’re allowed to name one or two things that are simply off the table.

2. A simple care menu

Instead of one big plan, make yourself a tiny menu you can choose from in the moment. You can jot this down in a notes app under three headings:

• Alone: short walk, favorite show, cry in the car, write them a letter

• With one person: coffee with a safe friend, visit a meaningful place, share a story about them

• With many: go to the gathering for one hour max, attend the ceremony and leave right after, join family for part of a meal

You don’t have to use everything on the menu. It’s just there so “I have no idea what to do” isn’t your only option.

3. Words you can borrow

On the hard days, finding words is its own mountain. Here are a few copy‑and‑paste scripts you can adjust:

• To say no:
  “Thank you for thinking of me. That day is really tender for me, so I’m going to sit this one out.”

• To leave early or change plans:
  “I thought I could do more today, but my grief is pretty loud. I need to head out early / change my plans, but I appreciate you understanding.”

• To ask for gentleness:
  “This is a hard date for me. I might be quieter than usual, but I’m glad to be with you.”

You can save whatever version fits you so Future You doesn’t have to come up with it from scratch.

If you want more company as you navigate these kinds of days, I keep other tools and supports collected here:
https://linktr.ee/TheGriefTable

And if you’re new here or looking back at older pieces, you can explore past GRIEF TOOLBOX issues and essays in the archive:
https://thegrieftable.substack.com/archive

With care for whatever date your heart is circling right now - and from inside my own season of circled dates,

Jamie

Dear reader,

I want to share something a little different with you this Tuesday.

Lately I’ve been thinking about joy after loss. Not the shiny, uncomplicated kind of joy people sometimes imagine we are supposed to “get back to,” but the kind of joy that comes after someone central to your life has died.

The kind that still arrives, but never arrives alone.

As a grieving mom, I know this in my body. As a grief educator, I hear it from so many others too. People will say, “I feel happy, but then I feel guilty,” or “I was having such a good day, and then suddenly I remembered who wasn’t here.”

And I always want to say: yes. Of course.

Because grief and joy do not always take turns.

Sometimes they walk in together.

Sometimes joy has grief braided through it. Sometimes laughter has an ache underneath it. Sometimes the most beautiful moments are also the moments when the absence feels the sharpest.

That does not mean the joy is false.

It means the love is still here.

So today, instead of trying to explain it all neatly, I wrote it as a poem.

The Light Learned to Limp

Somewhere after the breaking,
the light learned to limp.

It still comes in.

Gold across the table.
Laughter in the kitchen.
A baby’s hand opening
like a small green leaf.

But it does not arrive alone anymore.

It brings the shadow with it.

The empty chair.
The unsaid name.
The room inside the room
where my son is always missing.

I used to think joy was a clear bell.

Now I know it as a braided thing.

A river carrying moonlight
and silt.

A hymn with one note
forever trembling.

A bright thread pulled through
dark cloth.

Grief is the dark strand.

The ache.
The hollow.
The animal in the chest
that still turns toward the door.

Joy is the gold strand.

The laugh that rises anyway.
The child’s face lit with morning.
The sudden beauty
that dares to bloom.

And love,

love is the hand
that keeps weaving.

Love is the loom.
Love is the pattern.
Love is the reason
nothing can be separated now.

So I stand inside the good thing
and feel the whole of it.

The blessing
and the bruise.

The song
and the silence beneath it.

The yes
and the absence
answering back.

This is how life comes to me now.

Not clean.
Not single.
Not untouched by sorrow.

But layered.

Luminous.

Wounded
and still becoming.

My joy is not smaller
because it carries grief.

It is deeper.

A chalice with a crack
where the light gathers.

A wing that remembers
the fall
and opens anyway.

Part of me lives here,

at the table,
in the laughter,
in the warm noise
of those I love.

And part of me
is always crossing
some invisible field,

calling his name
into the blue.

I do not call this broken.

I call it faithful.

I call it the shape
of a love
that death could not unmake.

I call it walking on,

with grief in one hand,
joy in the other,

and love

the thread
that binds them
to my bones.

If your joy feels different now, I hope you know you are not doing anything wrong.

You can laugh and still miss them.

You can celebrate and still feel the empty chair.

You can be grateful for what is here and devastated by who is not.

Joy after loss does not mean grief has left the room. Sometimes it means grief has learned how to sit beside joy without swallowing it whole.

And maybe that is not a failure of healing.

Maybe that is love continuing to take its place in our lives.

If this poem met you somewhere tender today, you can find more grief letters and toolbox pieces in the archive here:

The Grief Table archive

And if you are looking for more places to feel less alone, I keep a collection of grief resources here:

The Grief Table resources

Sending so much love your way this Tuesday,

Jamie

One of the most common things that lands in my messages is some version of this: “What do you suggest I try?” And I love that question. I love that you’re asking it. But I’ve wanted for a long time to have somewhere to point people - a real, comprehensive list they could return to, explore at their own pace, and use as a jumping-off point for their own research.

This is that list.

I’ve been researching grief - and surviving it - for a few years now. In that time, I’ve personally tried a lot of the things here. Not because I had a plan, but because I was desperate, curious, or lucky enough to stumble onto something that helped. I’m still exploring. I expect I always will be.

This isn’t a prescription. I am not telling you what to do or what will work for you - grief is too personal for that. What I’m offering is a starting point. A menu. A place to get curious. Read through and let something catch your eye. Google it. Ask your therapist about it. Bring it up in a support group. Some of these you’ll already be doing. Some might feel like they were made for you. Some won’t be right for you at all - and that’s fine too.

Bookmark this one. Come back to it in six months when you’re in a different season. Share it with someone who’s just trying to figure out where to start.

You deserve to know your options. You deserve support. Even if you just try one.

1. Talk-Based & Therapeutic

Sometimes we need to put words to it - with someone trained to hold them.

• CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) - works with thought patterns and behaviors

• ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy) - builds psychological flexibility around difficult emotions

• EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) - processes traumatic memories through bilateral stimulation

• Complicated Grief Therapy (CGT) - specifically designed for prolonged or complicated grief

• Mindfulness-Based Cognitive Therapy (MBCT) - combines cognitive therapy with mindfulness practices

• DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy) - builds distress tolerance and emotional regulation skills

• Narrative Therapy - helps you re-author the story of your loss and your life

• Psychodynamic Therapy - explores how the past shapes present grief

• Person-Centered Therapy - rooted in unconditional positive regard and deep listening

• Grief-Informed Therapy - any therapeutic approach that centers the grief experience

• Prolonged Grief Disorder (PGD) treatment - evidence-based protocols for grief that has become debilitating

• Internal Family Systems (IFS) - works with different “parts” of self, including the part that is grieving

• Emotionally Focused Therapy (EFT) - often used with couples navigating loss together

• Play Therapy - for children who grieve through doing, not talking

• Sand Tray Therapy - uses symbolic, tactile play to express what words can’t reach

• One-on-one grief counseling - focused, individualized support from a trained counselor

• Group grief therapy - professionally facilitated, therapeutic group work

  

2. Body-Based & Somatic

Grief lives in the body. The body deserves its own care.

• Somatic Experiencing - gently releases trauma stored in the nervous system

• Sensorimotor Psychotherapy - integrates body awareness into talk therapy

• EMDR - also powerfully body-based; worth listing twice

• Trauma-Sensitive Yoga - yoga adapted for survivors of trauma and loss

• Yoga Nidra - deep, guided rest for the nervous system

• Breathwork - pranayama, holotropic breathwork, box breathing, and more

• TRE (Tension and Trauma Releasing Exercises) - activates the body’s natural tremoring to release held tension

• Massage therapy - touch as medicine; can access grief held in muscle and tissue

• Craniosacral therapy - gentle, hands-on work with the nervous system

• Acupuncture - works with the body’s energy pathways; many grievers find it regulating

• Acupressure - similar principles, self-administered or practitioner-guided

• Reiki - energy-based healing practice

• Qigong - slow, intentional movement and breathwork rooted in Chinese medicine

• Tai Chi - moving meditation; grounding and gentle

• Dance/movement therapy - professional therapeutic use of movement to process emotion

• Walking - underrated, accessible, and genuinely helpful

• Swimming - water holds the body in a way that can feel like relief

• Exercise and movement generally - whatever gets you into your body and out of your head

• Cold water therapy - emerging evidence for nervous system regulation; not for everyone

• Somatic tracking and body scans - learning to notice and befriend physical sensation

• Progressive muscle relaxation - deliberate tension and release throughout the body

  

3. Creative & Expressive

You don’t have to be an artist. You just have to be willing to make something.

• Art therapy - therapeutic use of visual art with a trained art therapist

• Journaling and reflective writing - one of the most accessible grief tools we have

• Poetry writing - saying the unsayable in a form that welcomes incompleteness

• Letter writing to the person who died - one of the most profound things I know

• Memoir writing - telling the whole story, at your own pace

• Scrapbooking and memory keeping - honoring a life through images, objects, and moments

• Collage - cutting and assembling as a way of making meaning

• Painting - color and mark-making as emotional language

• Drawing - doesn’t require skill; requires only willingness

• Sculpture/clay work - something about shaping with your hands reaches grief differently

• Music therapy - therapeutic use of music with a trained music therapist

• Playing an instrument - even badly; even for five minutes

• Songwriting - many grievers find their voice this way

• Listening to music intentionally - a playlist built for grief is a form of care

• Dance and movement - letting the body say what the mind can’t

• Theater/drama therapy - using story, role, and enactment to process experience

• Photography - turning your eye toward beauty, memory, or meaning

• Quilting or fiber arts - repetitive, hands-on, and surprisingly therapeutic

• Cooking and food as ritual - making someone’s recipe; feeding others; feeding yourself

4. Mindfulness & Contemplative

Slowing down enough to be with what is.

• Meditation (guided and silent) - showing up with whatever is present, without trying to fix it

• Mindfulness practices - moment-to-moment awareness woven into daily life

• Centering Prayer - a contemplative Christian practice of surrender and silence

• Lectio Divina - slow, meditative reading of sacred text

• Contemplative retreats - structured time away for silence and reflection

• Vipassana - insight meditation; intensive but transformative for some

• Loving-kindness (metta) meditation - extending compassion to self and others

• Body scan meditation - a gentle practice of checking in with each part of the body

• Breathwork - breath as anchor; breath as bridge

• Yoga - union of body, breath, and awareness

• Zen practices - sitting, being, not knowing; sometimes exactly what grief needs

• Labyrinth walking - a walking meditation used in many spiritual traditions

  

5. Spiritual & Meaning-Making

For the questions grief asks that don’t have easy answers.

• Prayer - whatever that looks like for you; it doesn’t have to be formal

• Ritual and ceremony - marking what matters; honoring what has changed

• Creating altars or memory spaces - a physical place to turn toward your person

• Visiting meaningful places - somewhere they loved, somewhere you loved together

• Lighting candles - small, embodied act of remembrance

• Reading sacred texts - or poetry, or anything that holds you

• Spiritual direction - one-on-one companionship for the spiritual dimensions of grief

• Connecting with the continuing bond of the deceased - the relationship doesn’t end; it changes

• Legacy projects - carrying their values, passions, or name forward in the world

• Legacy letters - writing what you want them to know, what you want others to know

• Planting trees or gardens in memory - life growing from loss

• Memorial tattoos - wearing your love on your body

• Exploring what you believe about death and what comes after - grief often opens these questions; they deserve real attention

• Finding a faith or spiritual community - belonging to something larger than yourself

• 12-step communities - for grief compounded by addiction, or simply for the communal spiritual structure

• Working with a chaplain or pastoral counselor - spiritual care for non-religious and religious alike

6. Nature & Ecotherapy

The natural world has been holding grief longer than any of us have been alive.

• Forest bathing (Shinrin-yoku) - slow, sensory immersion in a wooded environment

• Gardening therapy / horticultural therapy - hands in the earth; tending and being tended

• Wilderness therapy - structured therapeutic programs in natural settings

• Conservation therapy - meaningful work in nature as a form of healing

• Outdoor meditation - taking your practice outside

• Walks in nature - unhurried, without destination

• Animal-assisted therapy - trained animals and handlers supporting emotional wellbeing

• Equine therapy - working with horses; something about their presence reaches grief

• Sitting with the ocean or a body of water - the horizon helps; the sound helps; the scale helps

• Watching the sky and seasons as a mirror for grief - grief, like nature, moves in cycles

  

7. Community & Connection

We are not meant to grieve alone. Full stop.

• Grief support groups (in-person and online) - the relief of being in a room with people who understand

• Bereaved parent groups - loss-specific; uniquely essential

• Loss-specific communities - pregnancy loss, suicide loss, pet loss, overdose loss, sudden loss - there are communities for each

• One-on-one grief companionship - a trained or experienced companion who simply walks alongside you

• Death Cafes - informal, community gatherings to talk openly about death and dying

• Befriending others who are grieving - sometimes the most healing thing is giving and receiving in equal measure

• Sharing stories with family - honoring the person by keeping their story alive together

• Creating rituals with others - annual remembrances, shared practices, family traditions

• Online grief communities - accessible at 2am when nothing else is

• Grief retreats and workshops - immersive, sometimes transformative community experiences

• Mentorship from someone further along in grief - not someone who’s “over it” - someone who’s learned to carry it

8. Lifestyle & Nervous System Support

The unglamorous, foundational work. It matters more than we give it credit for.

• Sleep hygiene and rest - grief is exhausting; protecting sleep is protecting yourself

• Nourishing food and nutrition - not perfectly; just intentionally

• Hydration - grief dehydrates; drink water

• Reducing alcohol - alcohol disrupts sleep, numbs feeling, and often deepens grief over time

• Gentle movement - any movement that doesn’t punish the body

• Time in sunlight - especially in the morning; especially in winter

• Limiting overstimulation - news, screens, noise - grief brains are already overwhelmed

• Creating routine and structure - small anchors in an unmoored life

• Saying no and protecting energy - grief is not a good time to overextend

• Asking for and accepting help - harder than it sounds; worth practicing

• Sensory comfort - weighted blankets, warm baths, soft textures; your nervous system is not being dramatic

9. Professional & Specialized Support

Knowing what kinds of help exist - and that it’s okay to need them.

• Grief therapist - a mental health professional with specialized grief training

• Psychologist - comprehensive psychological support, including assessment

• Psychiatrist - medical evaluation and medication support when grief intersects with clinical depression or anxiety

• Hospice and palliative care social workers - often available even after the death; underused and deeply skilled

• Hospital chaplains - trained spiritual care providers; non-denominational and available to anyone

• Grief coaches - support focused on navigating daily life in grief; not therapy, but valuable

• Death doulas - end-of-life guides; also support the bereaved

• Bereavement coordinators - found in hospices, hospitals, and community organizations

• Online therapy platforms - access to licensed therapists without geographic barriers

• Crisis lines and warmlines - for the hardest moments; 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline) is available 24/7

10. Reading, Learning & Witnessing

Sometimes we heal by finding our experience named - by someone else, in another form.

• Grief memoirs - The Year of Magical Thinking, When Breath Becomes Air, Wave, Option B, and so many more

• Grief theory books - for those who want to understand what’s happening inside them

• Podcasts about grief - longer-form listening, often deeply companioning

• Documentaries about loss and death - film as a form of witnessing

• Film and storytelling as witnessing - stories that make us feel less alone in our own

• Following grief educators and researchers - people who have devoted their work to understanding this

• Reading poetry about loss - Mary Oliver, Naomi Shihab Nye, David Whyte, Ocean Vuong, and countless others

• Learning about grief models - the Dual Process Model, Continuing Bonds theory, Meaning Reconstruction, the Tasks of Mourning - frameworks that help grief make sense

• Reading the words of other grievers - in books, in newsletters, in comment sections, in the places people tell the truth

  

A Note Before You Go

I know this list is a lot. And I know that when you’re in the thick of grief, even a list of good things can feel overwhelming.

So here’s what I want you to hear: you don’t have to do any of this perfectly. You don’t have to work through every category or find the “right” modality or figure it all out at once. Some of these will feel completely irrelevant to you. Some might feel out of reach right now. And maybe one or two will feel like - oh, that. That might be something.

That’s enough. That’s actually the whole point.

We are all just finding our way through something that doesn’t come with a map. I’m right here in it with you - still trying things, still learning, still figuring out what helps. This list exists because I wish someone had handed it to me earlier. I’m handing it to you now.

Your grief deserves tending. In whatever way you can manage, in whatever season you’re in.

What’s one thing on this list you’ve already tried? What’s one you’re curious about? I’d love to know.

Much Care,

Jamie

P.S. This post is a good one to save and come back to - but there's a whole archive of Grief Toolbox posts, essays, and resources waiting for you too. You can find everything at thegrieftable.substack.com/archive. And if you're looking for all the spaces, groups, and resources I've put together - support communities, links, and more - everything lives in one place at linktr.ee/TheGriefTable. Come find us.

I’m writing this from the airport. Gate C-something. My gate number actually doesn’t matter - what matters is that I’m somewhere between the retreat and home, suspended between two worlds, and I needed to reach out to you before this feeling fades.

My husband and I were there as teachers - we were facilitating, speaking, holding space. And we were also participants. We sat in the grief alongside everyone else. We let ourselves be held by the room the same way we hoped others would be. That line between teacher and participant kept blurring, and honestly, I think that’s where the real thing lives. I am not someone who studies grief from a distance. I am a bereaved mother who teaches from inside it - and who still needs a room full of people who understand, just like anyone else.

My nervous system is still settling. Still coming down from days of being surrounded by people who didn’t need me to explain a single thing. There is a particular kind of relief in that - a relief I forget I’ve been starving for, until I finally get it.

Something happened at the retreat that I keep turning over in my mind.

Someone spoke up and offered a piece of their grief to the room - something tender and specific and deeply, privately theirs. And I watched the whole room shift. Heads nodded. Eyes filled. A slow, collective exhale moved through the space like a wave. And then someone whispered, me too.

Just that. Me too.

I don’t think I can overstate what those two words do to a grieving person. I really don’t.

When we grieve in isolation, grief grows. It fills every corner of a room, every crack in the ceiling at 3am. It tells us we are broken. It tells us we are too much, that no one could possibly hold the weight of this, that we have to carry it smaller - more manageably - so we don’t become a burden. Grief alone becomes a story about who we are. About what we deserve.

But when someone else sees your grief - really sees it, not to fix it or soften it or steer it somewhere more comfortable, but just to witness it - something in the body lets go. Your nervous system, which has been gripped and braced and on-guard for so long it’s forgotten what rest feels like, receives a signal. You are not alone. This is real. You are not too much. And it begins - just barely - to exhale.

This is not a metaphor. This is biology. This is what our bodies are built for. Being in community with people who truly understand your loss is regulating. Being seen is regulating. Feeling the weight shared across more than just your own two hands is, quite literally, calming to your whole being.

We were not made to mourn in isolation. We were made to grieve in the presence of others - to let community hold the edges of what we cannot hold alone.

You do not have to do this alone.

If you have ever sat in a room - or a Zoom, or a comment thread at midnight - and felt a “me too” land somewhere deep in your chest, you already know what I’m describing. That moment of recognition is not a small thing. It may be one of the most profound experiences available to us as human beings.

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing... not healing, not curing... that is a friend who cares.”

―Henri Nouwen

With love from the table,

Jamie

P.S. — If this resonated with you, you can browse all past newsletters in the archive right here. And if you’re looking for all the ways to connect, find resources, and stay in touch, everything is gathered for you at The Grief Table — I keep it updated with what’s current.

Hi friend,

Summer can arrive with a kind of brightness that can feel almost demanding, as if the world is asking us to be lighter than we are.

More plans. More gatherings. Longer days. More reminders of what used to be, who should be here, or how life looked before loss changed everything.

If this season feels complicated, you are not alone.

As we all know so well, grief does not follow the calendar. It does not change because the weather is warm or because other people are ready for vacations, barbecues, graduations, or long weekends. Sometimes the beginning of summer, or any new season for that matter, can make the absence feel even louder in our hearts.

This weekend, my husband and I will be in Arizona, teaching and speaking at a Bereaved Parents Retreat. Over the last two years, we have attended and spoken at a few of these gatherings, and they are such powerful places, where grievers come together and so much tenderness and truth is shared. June is a particularly heavy month for us, as our son passed on June 3rd, and I am holding that close as we step into this work and this season. After the retreat, we get to squeeze in a few days with one of our kids, his family, and one of our grandkids, and I am holding that tenderness and excitement too.

So this week’s grief toolbox offering is simple:

Before we move into the weekend, let’s take a quiet moment to check in with ourselves:

What am I carrying into this season?

What do I need less of?

What might help me feel a little more supported?

(You can journal your answers, comment below or share with a trusted friend)

We do not have to answer these perfectly. We just need to notice what comes up.

Maybe the answer is saying no to something that feels performative or just expected of us.

Maybe it is creating one small ritual of remembrance, just for us.

Maybe it is giving ourselves permission to rest without explaining this to everyone else.

Maybe it is finding a place where our grief does not have to be explained and can maybe even be witnessed with care.

We do not have to leave our grief behind in order to participate in life. We can let it come with us, softly and honestly, wherever we travel.

And if you need a place where grief is welcome in every season, I would love to invite you to join us at The Grief Table. There is room for your full self here.

With tenderness,

Jamie

P.S. If you want to tuck a little more support into your pocket for the days ahead, the Friday Grief Toolbox archive is always open. You can also find gathered resources, community links, and offerings at The Grief Table resource hub.

This is one of the memories I’m bringing with me. (Summer 2019)

If you are years out from your loss and it still hurts like it was yesterday, I want to sit with you for a minute.

No stages. No charts. No “here’s where you should be by now.”

Just you and me.

Griever to griever.

I think one of the cruelest things about grief is how quickly the world starts looking for signs that we are “better.” The casseroles stop coming. The texts slow down. People stop saying their name as much. Life keeps moving, and somehow everyone assumes we are moving right along with it.

But some losses do not move like that.

Some losses do not soften on schedule. Some losses do not fit neatly into a year, or five years, or ten. Some losses redraw the whole map of who we are.

As a grieving mom, I know this in my body before I know it in any research. And as a grief educator who sits with so many people carrying so many kinds of loss, I hear it all the time:

“Why does it still hurt this much?”

“Shouldn’t I be further along?”

“Is something wrong with me?”

And every time, some part of me wants to reach across the table, put my hand over theirs, and say:

No. Nothing is wrong with you.

You are grieving someone who mattered.

Research is slowly catching up to what grieving people have known forever: for many people, grief stays intense and disruptive for a long time. Clinicians now have language like Prolonged Grief Disorder, and some studies estimate that around 7 to 10% of grieving adults experience grief that remains fierce and life-altering long after the outside world expects them to be “okay.”

But I want to be really careful here.

A diagnosis can be helpful when it opens the door to support. It can help people get care, therapy, understanding, and language for what they are carrying.

But your grief is not a character flaw.

Your missing is not a malfunction.

Your love is not a disorder.

Sometimes grief is heavy enough to bend the body. It touches our sleep, our energy, our immune system, our heart, our relationships, our ability to focus, and our sense of safety in the world. Of course it still feels like a lot to carry.

Long-term grief can look like thinking about them every single day, even while you are laughing at a dumb show or making dinner or answering emails.

It can look like your chest tightening on anniversaries, holidays, birthdays, death days, or random Tuesdays that no one else knows are sacred.

It can look like building an entire life around the hole and still feeling the edges of it, sharp and tender, years later.

It can look like a quiet loneliness that does not always go away just because there are people in the room.

And if this is you, I want you to hear me clearly:

You are not weak.

You are not behind.

You are not doing grief wrong.

You are living with a love that refuses to be reduced to a phase.

There is this strange pressure in our culture to turn grief into a transformation story. People want the lesson, the silver lining, the “look how strong you are now” ending.

And maybe there has been growth. Maybe there has been strength. Maybe you have become more tender, more honest, more awake to what matters.

But that does not mean the loss stopped being a loss.

It does not mean you stopped wishing they were here.

It does not mean you stopped reaching for them in the quiet places of your life.

Maybe years out, your grief feels like a sudden wave in the grocery store when you pass their favorite food. Maybe it is a ritual you keep without telling anyone, like lighting a candle, touching their photo, saying goodnight, or pausing when you see something they would have loved.

Maybe your life looks “fine” from the outside, but inside, it still feels tilted.

I know that feeling. I know what it is to keep living, keep working, keep showing up, keep being a person in the world, while also carrying the absence of someone who should still be here.

And I know how lonely it can feel when everyone else seems to have moved your grief into the past tense.

But love does not read calendars.

Love does not check what year it is.

Love does not say, “Well, this has gone on long enough.”

Some bonds are so woven into us that there is no getting over them. There is only learning how to live while they still ache.

And yes, your pain deserves care.

Not because you are broken, but because you are human. Because long-term grief can be exhausting. Because carrying this much love and longing alone can wear down the body and spirit.

Care might look like a therapist who understands grief in its long, complicated form, not just in the first year.

It might look like a grief group where people do not flinch when you say, “It’s been six years,” or “It’s been ten,” or “It’s been twenty and I still miss them every day.”

It might look like walking, stretching, medication, rest, water, sunlight, bodywork, prayer, crying in the car, or some small ritual that reminds your nervous system: I am allowed to be here.

It might also look like showing up online and typing, “It still hurts,” into a comment box, and having someone write back, “Mine too.”

That is not small.

Sometimes that is enough to help us make it through another day.

And there is something else I wish more people would say out loud:

We do not stop missing them.

Not at one year.

Not at five.

Not at ten.

Not ever.

The missing may change shape. It may not knock you flat every single day the way it did in the beginning. You may laugh more. You may function more. You may build a life you are proud of, even a beautiful life.

But some part of you may always notice their absence.

The empty chair.

The birthday they are not aging into.

The story you cannot tell them.

The version of you they never got to meet.

The ordinary Tuesday night when you suddenly think, “I can’t believe you’re not here for this.”

That does not mean you are stuck.

It means your heart remembers.

It means the bond was real.

It means love is still doing what love does, reaching.

You are allowed to miss them for the rest of your life.

That does not mean you will hurt this much forever. I want to say that gently, too. The intensity can shift. The edges can soften. Joy can come back. Meaning can return. You can keep growing.

But the love is permanent, so some degree of missing may be permanent too.

Both things can be true.

You can keep living, and keep missing them.

You can heal, and still ache.

You can be grateful for what is here, and devastated by who is not.

You can be okay in one moment and absolutely not okay in the next.

That is not failure. That is grief moving through a human life.

I often think of long-term grief as a kind of stubborn devotion. It is the part of us that keeps saying, year after year:

They mattered.

I still matter.

This love is not disposable.

And honestly, I do not want a world where love becomes disposable just because someone dies.

I want a world where we make room for the long ache. A world where we stop rushing people to closure. A world where we can say, “I still miss them,” without someone trying to fix us, correct us, or quietly change the subject.

So if you are years out and still hurting, please let this be a soft place to land today.

You are not too much.

You are not too late.

You are not behind.

Your grief makes sense here.

And your love is still welcome here.

If it feels helpful to sit with more words like these, there is an archive of past letters and toolbox pieces gathered here:

The Grief Table archive

And if you are looking for places to feel a little less alone with all of this, there is a collection of grief resources waiting for you too: private spaces, book recommendations, and other supports for life after loss, all in one place here:

The Grief Table resources

Sending so much love your way, reader.

Jamie