The Tenderness of Grief

The Tenderness of Grief

I must admit that I’ve been avoiding writing about grief. I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer, so here I am, processing and filled with a “variety of emotions.” One of my hypnosis teachers used that expression often, and it has stayed with me. Most of us grew up being told to “suck it up” or “get over it,” but life isn’t that simple. In the past, I would have judged myself harshly for being so emotional. Last week was one of my toughest work weeks, and I wonder whether that tenderness was connected to the contrast of having spent several weeks floating in a tube on a river in New Hampshire, resting, and enjoying my family and friends—and then returning to my work as a therapist, hearing heartbreak after heartbreak.

If this stirs something in you, pause for one slow breath. Notice where

grief, tenderness, or resistance lands in your body before reading on.

I broke down and cried with a patient when she shared the complications surrounding the tragic overdose death of her 37-year-old nephew. It was too much sadness, and yet sadness and tears are part of feeling our emotions, noticing our bodies, and honoring ourselves and those around us. Allowing ourselves to feel is part of healing. Addiction, untreated alcoholism, drug addiction, and mental health difficulties affect me deeply. These issues helped shape my desire to support others in recovering from these illnesses. Generally, my professional self is tough and loving, and I’m able to listen attentively, but crying openly is not my customary response.

People across many generations have not been encouraged to express emotions unless those emotions are happy ones. During my own healing journey, I have come to understand that if I pretend or deny my inner pain, the pain presents itself as a migraine, a headache, or physical exhaustion. This lesson began when I was writing my dissertation on chronic pain. A friend pointed out that I was talking about my own family and my own suffering. That realization came as quite a surprise to me. I certainly did not think I was self-centered enough to be researching and writing about myself. Decades later, it is obvious that I was searching for understanding and solutions to my pain—emotional and physical.

This may be a place to pause and listen inward. What has your body

been trying to tell you, gently and persistently?

What I love about mindfulness practice is that we cannot do it wrong. Our emotions, thoughts, and bodily sensations are not wrong; they simply are what they are. Exploring all of this through curiosity and non-judgment brings a more tender view of ourselves. I certainly attempt to maintain my professional edge with all of my patients, but I have cried with patients who have lost their children, their pets, their spouses, their careers, and so much more. In certain spiritual traditions, this heart-centered focus is revered; in America, not so much.

As a child, I was called all sorts of names that insulted my very being: “You’re too sensitive. You’re too emotional. You’re being dramatic. You’re overreacting. You’re being ridiculous.” My career and my deep dive into studying mindfulness have helped me face the truth that I am sensitive and emotional. But I am not being dramatic, ridiculous, or overreacting. I am being the person my Higher Power, God, created me to be. I am practicing holding that same space for others. Sometimes it seems unnatural to empathize so deeply with someone who comes to me for therapy. Most of the time, they are strangers. Some are referred by friends, and some by professionals who are now witnessing the growing research on how the mind and body are intertwined, not separate. In The Road Less Traveled, Scott Peck noted early in his New York Times bestseller that if you’re in the mental health profession and you don’t love your patients, you should leave the profession. I agree. Loving from a distance is warranted, and yet love is energetically felt from across the room.

If someone has ever told you that your feelings are “too much,” try

placing one hand on your heart and taking one slow breath. You might

say quietly, “My feelings are allowed. I can listen to them with

kindness.”

I, too, have lost family members to addiction. Nearly everyone in my parents’ generation died from smoking-related illnesses. Nicotine is an addictive substance. I have lost many people to alcoholism and drug addiction: family members, associates, patients, and people I met in the 12 Step rooms of recovery. Compulsive behaviors are ways the brain tries to protect us from pain we cannot yet bear. Dissociation from ourselves and our pain often appears through addiction. Bringing mindfulness into our lives helps us recognize what is truly happening right now, in this moment. It is vital to our healing that we allow ourselves to face and experience our emotions and understand that covering them up with addictive or compulsive behaviors only postpones life’s inevitable pain. And yet mindfulness gives us tools to survive this moment, keep learning, and guide not only ourselves but also the people we love toward experiencing life and all that it has to offer: the ups and downs, the joys and heartbreaks.

Here is a simple mindfulness practice to try: Take three slow breaths. On the first breath, notice what emotion is present. On the second breath, notice where that emotion lives in your body. On the third breath, offer yourself one kind sentence, such as, “This is hard, and I can be gentle with myself.” You do not have to fix the feeling. You only have to notice it and allow yourself to be with it for this moment. Children who may be listening can try this too: Put one hand on your belly and one hand on your heart. Take a slow breath in like you are smelling a flower, and breathe out like you are gently blowing bubbles. Then ask yourself, “What feeling is visiting me right now?” You can name it quietly, draw it in the air with your finger, or imagine giving that feeling a soft blanket. Feelings are not bad; they are messages from inside us, and we can listen to them with kindness.

When we are drawn toward compulsive or addictive behaviors, we can practice stopping in that very moment. We can take one breath and gently say, “In this moment, may I be kind to myself.” We can also reach out to people who care about us and allow them to support us as we work to break the habits that pull us away from our authentic selves. We do not have to do this alone; connection, compassion, and one mindful breath can help guide us back to ourselves.

Maybe grief asks us not to get over life, but to keep opening to it. It asks us to feel what hurts, to honor what and whom we have lost, and to remember that tenderness is not weakness. Tenderness is evidence that we are awake, connected, and still willing to love. When we meet our emotions with mindfulness, curiosity, and compassion, we give ourselves permission to survive this moment and to keep living fully into the next one.

In the end, grief, sensitivity, and even the pull toward old habits invite us back to the same practice: pause, breathe, notice, and respond with kindness. When we allow ourselves to feel what is present and reach for support when we need it, we move closer to healing, connection, and the authentic selves we were created to be.

“Savor the Moments”

Dr. Pamm