Latest / Style Project: Fashion, beauty & personal style / Grief in the Grocery Aisle: How to Keep Going When Everything Hurts | Style Project
Transcript
- You are standing in the cereal aisle, staring at a box of granola that has nothing to do with your sadness, and suddenly you realize you have forgotten how to be a person who buys breakfast. Let’s be real for a second. We talk a lot about big milestones in this show. The weddings, the moves, the promotions. But today I want to talk about the Tuesday afternoon when you’re just trying to get through laundry day. You know the feeling? It’s not the crying on the bathroom floor part. That’s expected. That’s part of the job description of grief. No, it’s the quiet panic of standing in front of an open refrigerator, holding a carton of milk that’s been there since Sunday, wondering if you should throw it out or if you’ll remember to drink it before it turns. And realizing you don’t even care. You just feel this heavy, gray static behind your ribs. It feels like your body is moving on autopilot while your soul is still back there, somewhere else. Like you’re wearing a costume of yourself that doesn’t quite fit anymore. The shoulders are too wide. The sleeves are too long. And everyone around you seems to be walking in time to a song you can’t hear. I used to hate the phrase 'moving on.' It sounded so final. So clean. As if grief were a suitcase you could just zip up and leave at the train station. But after losing my own father, five years ago now, I learned that grief isn’t a phase. It’s a climate. It changes the weather inside your house. Some days it’s sunny. Some days it’s a hurricane. And some days, like yesterday, it’s just this thick, humid fog that makes every step feel like wading through wet concrete. We are taught that routines are the antidote to chaos. Get up. Shower. Work. Sleep. Repeat. But when you are grieving, those routines can feel like betrayals. Because if you are brushing your teeth, does that mean you’ve stopped missing them? If you are laughing at a podcast joke, does that mean you’ve forgotten the pain? It feels like a moral failing to function. Like you owe your loss a certain level of dysfunction. But here is the radical truth I am telling you today: You do not owe your grief a ruined life. You can mourn deeply and still make a cup of coffee. You can miss someone with every fiber of your being and still reply to that email. One does not cancel out the other. They exist together, messy and contradictory. Now, let’s bring this back to what we know best: style. Not because fashion is shallow, but because it is one of the few places where we have direct control over our physical experience. Think about the last time you wore something that felt like armor. Maybe it was that structured blazer from the sale rack that hit just right at the waist. Maybe it was the softest, worn-in cotton tee that smelled like home. When you are navigating grief, your body often feels like a traitor. It shakes. It aches. It feels heavy. Clothing can be a way to renegotiate the terms of that relationship. I had a listener write to me recently, a woman named Elena, who told me she started wearing only black when her husband died. She said she wanted to disappear. She wanted to be invisible. But after six months, she realized the black wasn’t protecting her; it was suffocating her. So, she bought one pair of pants. Just one. In a color that reminded her of his eyes. Green. Emerald. She put them on one morning, stood in front of the mirror, and cried. But then she washed a load of dishes. And then she made dinner. Those pants didn’t fix her grief. They didn’t take the weight away. But they gave her a small anchor. A tactile reminder that she was still here. That she was still capable of choosing herself, even in the smallest way. Does it feel like you? Does your closet reflect the person you are mourning, or the person you are becoming? Here is another hard truth. You might not have the energy for the 'good' routine. The curated Instagram aesthetic of self-care. The face masks, the journaling, the green smoothies. Stop it. Please. Forgive yourself. Grief drains your battery faster than any deadline or commute. If your routine today consists of putting on clean underwear and sitting on the couch until sunset, that is enough. That is a victory. I remember when I was twenty-six, fresh out of editorial hell and freshly heartbroken, I thought I had to maintain a level of productivity to prove I was okay. I worked late. I dressed sharp. I smiled brightly at clients. Inside, I was crumbling. I treated my body like a machine that needed to keep running despite the damage. And eventually, it broke down. Hard. Now, I treat my body like a guest in my house. I ask it what it needs. Sometimes it needs rest. Sometimes it needs movement. Sometimes it just needs to be held. When you are grieving, give yourself permission to lower the bar. Lower it to the floor. Lie down on it. Let the dust bunnies live under the bed. The world will not end if you send a text saying, 'I’m dealing with some personal stuff, talk soon.' The sky will not fall if you wear sweatpants to the grocery store. Authenticity over aesthetics, always. Your worth is not tied to your output. Your love is not measured by your efficiency. So, how do you actually get through the day? You don’t need a grand plan. You need small anchors. Tiny, manageable points of stability. For me, it’s making the bed. Not perfectly. Just pulling the sheets up. It’s a small act of order in a chaotic world. For others, it’s watering a plant. It’s listening to the same song on repeat. It’s calling a friend who knows how to listen without trying to fix anything. Find your anchors. Protect them. They are not trivial. They are lifelines. And please, do not let anyone tell you that these small things are insignificant. When you are drowning, a straw is everything. I noticed this shift in posture when I started prioritizing these micro-moments. Shoulders dropped. Breath deepened. The frantic energy that says 'you’re falling behind' began to quiet down. It wasn’t that the grief went away. It was that I stopped fighting it. I stopped trying to outrun the shadow. I just walked alongside it. And in that space, I found a strange kind of peace. Not happiness. Peace. The kind that comes from accepting that some things cannot be fixed, only carried. You are carrying something heavy right now. I see you. I honor you. And I am so proud of you for showing up, even if showing up looks like staying in bed today. Healing is not linear. It is a spiral. You will come back to the same moments, the same triggers, the same waves of sorrow. But each time, you will be higher up on the spiral. You will have more tools. More strength. More grace. You will not be the same person you were before. You won’t want to be. That old version of you couldn’t handle this depth of feeling. This new you is built for it. You are stronger than you know. And you are not alone. Even in the silence. Even in the empty house. Even in the cereal aisle. There is a community of women who understand this ache. Who have stood where you are standing. Who have felt that same hollow chest. We are here. We are listening. And we are rooting for you. Not for the version of you that bounces back quickly, but for the version of you that stays true, even when it hurts. Wear the pants, literally or metaphorically. Stand tall, even if your legs are shaking. Speak your truth, even if your voice cracks. You are doing the work. And it matters. More than you know. Be gentle with yourself today. Drink some water. Breathe. I’ll be here tomorrow. Love you.