Gathering at the Edge: Navigating grief
In this module we’ll be navigating grief. If you’re reading this, perhaps you’ve chosen to spend time with grief; your own, or someone else’s. That’s not easy. This is a gentle space. Nothing here will push or rush you. You are in charge of how deep you go, and when.
Take a breath. Feel your feet on the ground or your bottom on the chair. Touch something soft nearby, a blanket, a stone, a plant. Let it remind you: you are here, and you are allowed to take your time.
Grief lives in the body as much as in the heart or mind. It can arrive as tension in the shoulders, a lump in the throat, restlessness in the legs, or an ache that can’t be named. Before we move into words, take a few minutes to move your body in a way that feels right to you:
Go outside and notice the sky.
Move slowly and silently.
Stretch your arms overhead.
Shake out your hands.
Rock gently from side to side.
Place a hand on your heart or belly.
Let yourself sigh, audibly.
Hum or exhale slowly through pursed lips.
You don’t need to be any particular way. You just get to be. Let your body guide your pace.
If anything in this process becomes too much, you have permission to stop, come back, or skip ahead. You’re not doing this wrong.
Grief is not linear. It is not a five-step checklist. It is a response to love, interrupted, changed, or stretched by loss. You may feel sadness. But also: confusion, anger, relief, numbness, gratitude, even laughter. All of that is grief. All of that belongs.
Grief is not a problem to solve. It is an experience to move through and be moved by. This module helps you understand grief as a layered, evolving, and relational process. Whether you are grieving a loved one, anticipating a loss, or supporting someone else through their grief, these exercises and scripts will guide you in meeting grief with more awareness, language, and care.
Setting your intention
Place one hand on your chest, the other on your belly. Feel your breath. Let it be slow. Let it take up space. Then reflect.
What does grief feel like today? Where is it living in my body right now? What shape does it take? What color or texture? Place your hand on that part of your body. Breathe into it. Just notice it. No need to change it.
What is bringing me to this work right now? What do I hope to learn or open up by being here? What feelings or thoughts have been hardest to admit to myself about grief? You can say them out loud, or write them, or just hold them for now.
Optional listen: Francis Weller, The Wild Edge of Sorrow
Self-reflection prompts
For your own grief:
Grief can be disorienting. It scrambles your memory. It makes time feel strange. That’s okay. Your brain and body are adapting to something enormous. Let them.
Try gentle stretching. Reach your arms up overhead and breathe in. Exhale and let them fall. Roll your shoulders. Wiggle your fingers and toes. This isn’t about “fixing” anything, just letting your body move a little.
Imagine your grief as a creature or a color. What form does it take? Can you sit beside it? What does it want to tell you?
Ask yourself: What am I still carrying from earlier losses?
Ask yourself: What am I afraid will happen if I fully feel this grief?
Ask yourself: What permission do I need to grieve fully?
Ask yourself: What part of me feels unmet in this process?
Optional practice: Draw your grief. Scribble, sketch, finger-paint. Use shapes, lines, or colors. You don’t have to explain it. Let the image speak for itself.
For supporting others’ grief:
Before showing up for someone else, pause. Put one hand on your heart and one on your belly. Feel your breath. Say quietly, “I’m here, and I’m enough.” Let that land.
You don’t need the perfect words. You just need to show up with care. People in grief often remember how you made them feel, not what you said. Here’s what helps: listening. Naming what’s hard. Making space for silence. Try this: “I don’t know what to say. But I’m here with you.”
Ask yourself: What assumptions am I making about their process?
Ask yourself: How can I offer presence without performance?
Ask yourself: What makes it hard for me to witness someone else’s pain?
Grief conversation starters and talking points
Talking to others about your grief:
Naming your need: “I’m going through a tough grief process right now. I don’t need you to fix it. Just having someone listen is really helpful.”
Asking for presence: “Would you be open to just sitting with me for a bit? I don’t want to be alone in this, even if we don’t talk much.”
Boundary setting: “I know you care, but I need space right now. Please don’t try to cheer me up. Just letting me be sad is what helps.”
Talking to someone who is grieving:
Opening the door: “I’ve been thinking about you. I imagine this time might be hard, and I’m here if you want to talk or just not feel so alone.”
Offering support: “Would it feel okay if I brought over a meal, or ran an errand for you?”
Honoring loss: “I remember how much you loved [name]. I was remembering the story you told me about [brief details]. It made me smile.”
Instead of small talk: “It’s really good to see you. I imagine this has been a heavy time. I’m thinking of you.”
When they’re isolating: “You’re not forgotten. No pressure to respond. Just sending care.”
What NOT to say
Don’t say: “They’re in a better place.” Often meant to comfort, this can minimize the mourner’s pain by implying they should feel peace or relief. It also assumes shared spiritual beliefs, which may not apply.
Don’t say: “At least they lived a long life.” While it acknowledges longevity, it can feel like the depth of the loss is being downplayed. Grief isn’t measured by years; it’s measured by connection.
Don’t say: “Everything happens for a reason.” This can come across as dismissive or even spiritual bypassing. It skips over the pain and complexity of loss in favor of a neat explanation that may not resonate.
Don’t say: “You’ll get over it soon.” Grief isn’t something to “get over.” It’s something we learn to live with. This phrase rushes the grieving process and implies a deadline for feeling better.
Don’t say: “I know exactly how you feel.” No one knows exactly how someone else feels. This can feel presumptive and can close down rather than open up space for the grieving person’s unique experience.
Don’t say: “I get it.” (and then perhaps making comparisons about people or pets you’ve lost) Even if you’ve experienced loss, comparing it can unintentionally shift the focus to you. Grief is deeply personal. What someone needs most is to be seen, not matched.
Dealing with anger in grief
Anger is a normal, valid, and intelligent response to loss. It often arrives uninvited, sharp, hot, inconvenient. You might be angry at what happened, at who left, at people who didn’t show up, at doctors, systems, even yourself. You might feel angry at the person who died. That doesn’t make you a bad person. It makes you human.
You’re allowed to feel rage. To hate how unfair this is. Anger protects. It draws a boundary. It declares something mattered. It deserves respect, not repression.
May this be a gentle invitation to grab a pillow and scream into it. Slam your hand on the bed or couch. Stomp your feet. Move the anger physically without judgment. If that feels like too much, you could run cold or hot water over your hands or face. Imagine the anger moving out through the water. Breathe it through. Let your nervous system reset and consider the following.
What am I angry about that feels hard to say out loud?
What part of me is asking for protection or power right now?
If my anger could speak, what would it shout? Whisper? Demand?
What would it feel like to let anger just be without trying to tame it?
Optional practice: Create an “anger altar” or box. Fill it with colors, textures, songs, or symbols that match the heat of your grief. Let it live in a place where your anger is allowed to exist.
Dealing with guilt in grief
Guilt often shows up like a shadow after loss. “I should’ve done more.” “Why didn’t I call?” “Did I say the wrong thing?” Guilt can mask grief and stall healing. It clings to the myth that we could have controlled the uncontrollable.
Sometimes guilt feels like a tether to the person we lost, like if we let go of the guilt, we’re letting go of them. But that’s not true. You can honor someone through love, not just pain.
Guilt doesn’t mean you did something wrong. It might mean you cared. You still care. You’re human, and the story is unfinished. But guilt doesn’t need to write the ending.
May this be a gentle invitation to sit or lay down. Place a hand on your heart. Feel its rhythm. Say aloud: “I did the best I could with what I knew at the time.” Repeat as many times as needed. Imagine the earth holding the weight of your guilt. You don’t have to carry it alone. Then consider:
What guilt am I holding onto? Whose voice is behind it?
If someone I love were feeling this way, what would I say to them?
What am I afraid would happen if I forgave myself?
Is there a ritual, letter, or action I could take that might bring peace, not perfection?
Optional practice: Write a letter to the one you lost. Say what you’re sorry for. Say what you wish they knew. Then, imagine their response. It might surprise you.
Integration
Grief doesn’t go away. But it changes. It reshapes who we are. Sometimes we grow around it. Sometimes because of it.
May this be a gentle invitation to sit quietly and place a weighted object (like a small pillow or folded blanket) on your chest or lap. Let it ground you. Breathe deeply. Feel into the support. Then ask yourself:
How has your relationship with grief changed as you moved through this workbook?
What conversations are now possible that weren’t before?
Write a short note to your grief. You might say:
“Dear grief, this is what I’ve learned from you…”
“I’m tired of you. And still, I know you’re part of me.”
Optional closing practice: Light a candle. Take a walk. Sing a song. Stretch your body. Create a small ritual of closure that honors where you’ve been and that you’re still here.
Closing
If you’ve spent time with these pages, with your body, with your memories, with your grief, then you’ve done something tender and brave.
You may not have found answers. That’s okay. Grief isn’t something to solve. It’s something we carry, witness, and slowly learn to live with. Some days, it feels like a sharp stone in your pocket. Other days, it softens into a thread that connects you to what matters most.
Grief teaches us about love, loss, impermanence and about what we still long for. It reminds us that being human is messy and meaningful and deeply relational. And it asks us, gently or not, to slow down and listen.
So as you close this module, pause.
Notice what’s stirring. A memory, a breath, a tightness, a flicker of relief or sadness. Let it be. You don’t have to rush to make sense of it.
You’ve started something important. Something real.
Looking ahead
In our next module, Gathering at the Edge: End-of-Life Planning, we’ll shift into practical tools and grounded decisions: how to document your wishes, how to ease the burden for others, and how to align your end-of-life plans with your values.
It’s different work, but not separate. Grief and planning are two sides of the same devotion: care for ourselves, and for the people we love.
Until then, take care of your heart. Let what you’ve uncovered here settle and stretch.
You’re not alone in this.
You’re doing beautiful, necessary work.
Intro
Module One: Starting the Conversation
Module Two: Going Deeper in Conversation
Module Three: Navigating Grief (this post)
Module Four: End of Life Planning (coming July 17)
Disclaimer: This toolkit is not a substitute for professional mental health care. I am not a licensed therapist, counselor, or medical provider. The content offered here is for educational and supportive purposes only. If you are experiencing overwhelming distress or need mental health support, please reach out to a qualified professional or crisis resource in your area.