Latest / She Rose: Women Who Turned Pain Into Purpose / Grief Isn’t a Problem to Solve: How to Sit With the Unfixable | She Rose
Transcript
- You are not broken because you still hurt. You are just human, and your heart is doing exactly what it was designed to do—holding space for what matters most. I want you to take a deep breath with me right now. Just one. Let it out slowly. Feel the air leave your lungs? That’s it. We’re here. I know today might have felt heavy. Maybe you woke up and the weight was already there, sitting on your chest before your feet even touched the floor. Or maybe it hit you in the middle of a grocery store aisle, staring at a cereal box that reminds you of someone who isn’t here anymore. Whatever it is, I see you. And I want to tell you something that might feel counterintuitive, maybe even frustrating if you’ve been trying to ‘get better.’ Grief is not a problem to be solved. It is not a puzzle with a missing piece you need to find. It is not a project you can complete by checking off boxes on a to-do list. When we treat grief like a malfunction, like something wrong with our emotional operating system, we add shame on top of sorrow. We start asking ourselves why we aren’t over it yet. Why haven’t we moved on? But let’s sit with that for a second. Moving on implies leaving it behind. And how can you leave behind something that has become part of your very architecture? Your grief is not an error code. It is evidence of love. It is proof that you cared deeply, that you connected fully, that you lived authentically. And when we stop trying to fix it, we finally give ourselves permission to just feel it. We live in a culture that is obsessed with optimization. If you’re sad, you optimize your mood with supplements. If you’re grieving, you optimize your healing with journaling prompts and therapy apps. There is this pervasive idea that if we just work hard enough on ourselves, we can accelerate the process. We can shortcut the pain. But pain doesn’t work like a software update. You cannot force-install peace. I remember a time in my own life when I was going through a loss so profound I felt like I was underwater. Everyone around me kept handing me life rafts. They told me to stay positive, to focus on the good times, to keep busy. They meant well. Truly. But their advice was based on the assumption that my sadness was a state I needed to escape from as quickly as possible. And in trying to escape it, I ended up running away from myself. I was terrified of sitting alone with my own thoughts because I didn’t know who I was without the pain. So I filled every silence with noise. I worked late. I said yes to every social event. I scrolled until my eyes burned. And the more I ran, the heavier the grief became. It wasn’t gone; it was just buried under layers of distraction. And buried things don’t disappear. They fester. They wait for the moment when you’re tired, or vulnerable, or quiet, to rise back up and demand your attention. So, what does it look like to stop running? What does it look like to sit in the rubble? It looks like allowing yourself to cry in the shower so no one hears. It looks like saying no to the party because you don’t have the energy to perform happiness. It looks like letting the house be messy because cleaning feels like too much effort when your soul feels like it’s been through a hurricane. This is where the magic happens, though it doesn’t feel magical in the moment. This is where the real work begins. Not the work of fixing, but the work of witnessing. Witnessing your own pain with kindness. Imagine if you could look at your grief the way you would look at a small child who has scraped their knee. You wouldn’t yell at them for crying. You wouldn’t tell them to toughen up. You would kneel down, hold them close, and say, ‘I know it hurts. I’m here. You’re safe.’ That is the level of tenderness we must offer ourselves. The crack is where the light gets in, yes, but first, you have to let the crack exist. You have to acknowledge the break. When we resist the feeling, we amplify it. When we welcome it, even for ten minutes a day, it loses its power to control us. It becomes something we can carry, rather than something that carries us away. One of the biggest lies we tell ourselves is that closure is a destination. We think there is a point where the pain stops, where the memories become neutral, where we can talk about the person or the situation without our hearts breaking. But for many of us, that never comes. And that is okay. Closure is not a finish line; it is a byproduct of integration. It happens when we learn to carry the loss differently. At first, the loss is a boulder on your back. It’s sharp, heavy, and impossible to ignore. Over time, with patience and presence, the boulder erodes. It becomes a stone. Then a pebble. It still weighs something, but it fits in your pocket. You can walk with it. You can forget it’s there for hours at a time, only to remember it gently when you reach into your coat. This transformation takes time. It cannot be rushed. And it certainly cannot be forced by other people’s timelines. I hear so many women say, ‘It’s been six months, I should be fine by now.’ Or, ‘My mother says I need to move on.’ Please, let go of those external clocks. Your grief has its own season. Some seasons are long winters. Some are brief springs. Both are valid. Both are necessary. When you try to force a winter spring to bloom, you kill the seed. You have to trust the cycle. You have to trust that even in the deepest freeze, life is preparing to return. Not because you willed it to, but because it is the nature of life to persist. If you are feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of your grief, I want to invite you to start small. You don’t have to tackle the whole mountain today. Just find one small thing. Maybe it’s lighting a candle and sitting with it for five minutes. Maybe it’s writing a letter to the person you lost, not to send, but to release. Maybe it’s just drinking a cup of tea and noticing the warmth in your hands. These tiny acts of presence are anchors. They remind you that you are still here, even though everything has changed. They remind you that you are capable of experiencing moments of peace, even amidst the pain. And it’s okay if those moments are fleeting. It’s okay if they are interrupted by a wave of sadness. That doesn’t mean you failed. It means you’re human. I want to remind you of that episode we did a while back about tying shoes. Remember how we talked about imperfection building competence? Well, grief works the same way. Every time you sit with the discomfort instead of running from it, you build a new muscle. You build resilience. Not the kind of resilience that makes you hard, but the kind that makes you flexible. The kind that allows you to bend without breaking. You are learning, step by step, how to carry this weight. And you are doing a better job than you think. You are surviving. You are thriving in your own unique way. And that is enough. So, here is my invitation to you for the rest of this week. Do not try to fix anything. Do not try to heal anything. Just be with yourself. When the waves come—and they will—let them wash over you. Don’t fight the current. Breathe. Trust that you will surface. Trust that you are supported, even if it feels like you are alone. You are not alone. I am here. We are here. This community is here. We are holding space for each other. We are witnessing each other’s pain and celebrating each other’s small victories. And those small victories matter. Getting out of bed is a victory. Making eye contact is a victory. Laughing at a joke is a victory. All of it counts. All of it is part of the journey. It’s okay to be a work in progress. In fact, it’s the only way we ever truly grow. So, be gentle with yourself. Be patient. Be kind. And remember, you don’t have to have it all figured out. You just have to keep showing up. For yourself. For your heart. For your life. However messy, however imperfect, however painful it may be. That is enough. That is always enough. Thank you for trusting me with your story today. I’ll be thinking of you. Take care of that beautiful, tender heart of yours. I’ll see you in the next one.