Somatic Grief: My Body Knows What I Can’t Yet Say

“They will see me grieve, but also rise.”

Last Saturday marked one month since my husband passed on. All I can say is: grief is one heck of an experience.

I really don’t know where to start.

The physical experience of losing someone so important and integral to our lives is something no book or conversation could have prepared me for. From shock, to dissociation, to compartmentalization, to numbness, to terror - this is the first time I’m moving through a human experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Lately, grief has surprised me with subconscious mourning. My dreams, whatever little I get, since my sleep is so broken, are vivid and visceral. Over the past two weeks, I’ve woken up with the physical sensation that I’ve cried all night.

This really surprised me. I’m not afraid of crying. In fact, I fiercely advocate for expressing all healthy emotions. So why is my mind saving this particular kind of mourning for nighttime? I think my system has been shocked into fight-or-flight. I am now a newly single mom who just lost her partner and rock. My 5- and 6-year-old children need me even more than before. And since we depended entirely on my husband financially, the future I face is one where I am the sole provider - something I haven’t done since 2019.

It’s no surprise I’m in survival mode. There isn’t time for tears during the day; I’m the lifeline now.

And yet, I feel oddly empowered. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a trick my subconscious is playing on me. Empowerment usually has a positive connotation. How can the loss of my husband possibly result in something positive? It makes me think of what a woman goes through with a newborn. The magic of a baby is a beautiful blessing, yet the sleepless nights and stress are not for the meek. And still, most mothers will tell you - we are overtaken by something greater than us. We show up. We survive. We love.

There are times the scene of finding my husband flashes into my mind. I walk into his room. I know instantly. I call 911. I see his beautiful eyes one last time while I give CPR for what feels like both minutes and hours until I hear the ambulance wail.

When that memory surfaces, I gently set it aside. I know I’ll need deep therapy to work through the capital-T Trauma. But I also know I can’t fully dive into that work just yet.

Since my children just lost one parent, I have to protect my own health. At my annual check-up this morning, my vitals were almost comically stable - 98.6 temp, 100% oxygen saturation, 71 BPM, and shockingly low blood pressure. My doctor said it’s fine as long as I don’t feel dizzy. I don’t.

Why am I in such good physical shape?

I’ve always taken care of myself, and it became even more important once I had children. I want to be around for them - not just for a long time, but to truly enjoy life with them. After this devastating loss, I half expected to fall apart completely. But maybe this is where God is carrying me. Maybe I’m being held together so I can keep showing up.

I’ve taken a mental inventory of the new physical and emotional experiences I’ve had in the past month. These aren’t new to most people, but they are to me.

Shock.

When I was told my husband had in fact passed, I felt like I was both in and outside my body. One part of me watched from above. The other wanted to crawl out of her skin. The only time I’ve felt anything like that was during a plant ceremony where, for a split second, I literally didn’t want to exist. On April 3, I begged the sheriff to tell me it was a mistake. That I would wake up soon. But I didn’t. And it wasn’t. I couldn’t speak for two or three hours.

Loss of appetite.

When I called my childhood best friend, who had endured this same nightmare 3.5 years prior, one of the first things she told me was, “Eat a little bit, even if you don’t want to.” She knew. For days, all I could stomach were bland crackers and soup. Nothing sounded good. I couldn’t eat anything until the late afternoon. My appetite is back, but my weight is not. I am 115 pounds.

Terror.

A subset of shock, the reality that my love had passed haunts me at random. It’s like living inside a nightmare that’s somehow real. During the day, I can temper the fear. But at night, it creeps back in. In those early weeks (and likely again), the nightmares were haunting. Almost cruel. I used to dream Brian and I had broken up, and I’d wake relieved to find we hadn’t broken up; that he was still here. Now, it’s the opposite. I wake to remember he’s not.

Groundedness.

This one surprised me. Just like I knew I wanted to take the kids to school once spring break ended, I also knew, instinctively, that my top priority is their well-being. We will evolve around our grief for the rest of our lives, but I refuse to let this loss define or damage them. I understand that how I live and how I grieve shape their world. There’s a mountain of messy work ahead, but I will always choose them first.

They will be cared for, but not become martyrs.  

They will be heard, but not given carte blanche rights.  

They will be included, but not burdened.  

They will see me grieve, but also rise.

Duality.

When people ask how I’m doing, they often pause mid-question and say, “What a stupid question… I don’t know what to say.” And I tell them: “You know what? I don’t either!” How do I answer that? In the moment, I might be standing at school making small talk, seemingly fine, and yet, inside, I am so deeply aware that Brian is gone. It feels strange to grocery shop, do pick-ups and drop-offs, garden. How dare I? But I also know: this is what Brian would want. He wouldn’t want me to crumble. I’m sure I will at times. But not yet.

They say joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin. That one extreme only has meaning because we’ve lived the other.

They also say grief is love, with nowhere to go.

I’m learning that both can be true.