Feeling Anguish? Listen to Your Body. Not to Other People.

To listen to an audio reading of this post, click here or go to bit.ly/FeelingAnguishAudio


The body says what words cannot. — Martha Graham

I love swimming in Austin’s amazing Barton Springs Pool — it’s cold and enlivening. Most of the time I swim there three times a week, year round.

But last year my dad and my dog died in the depths of winter.

It doesn’t get that cold in Austin, but it takes much more mental discipline and grit to jump into the cold spring water when it’s 25–45 degrees outside than when it’s 95!

When my dad and my dog died, everything in me demanded that I pull in, curl up, and treat myself tenderly. Treating myself tenderly did not include swimming in the cold. It was hard to allow myself to give in to not swimming for an indefinite period time, especially during a phase of my life when I’m not getting any younger so exercise is essential for maintaining my energy and health.

Yet I remembered something crucial I’d learned about grief back in 1992 when my first husband died. After living all the way through that hell (and after helping many of my clients live through grief), the most important thing I’d tell my 1992, 30-year-old self from here is:

Pulling in, curling up, and convalescing will allow your grief to heal you. You will regain your energy over time, especially if you treat yourself tenderly now.

So last year after the deaths, I listened to my past self and surrendered to the urge to stay in where it was warm and to snuggle into my soft sheets. By summer, I was still sluggish and weighed down by grief, so I gave in to the urge to remain in the dark with the blinds drawn (instead of swimming) even when the summer sun beat down at 99 degrees.

(Note that I was not depressed. I didn’t feel bogged down and paralyzed with depression’s deadness. I was simply grieving. I can tell the difference. I’m going to write an entire post about discerning the difference between grief and depression soon.)

Even though I had learned the hard way that listening to my body in grief was the most useful strategy, I hadn’t lived through another big loss myself since learning the lesson. Living through fresh loss with insight gleaned from my past loss was like carrying a mini-mentor with me through the whole process. So I held onto faith that my body was telling me what I needed.

Thus it seemed miraculous to my present self that listening to my body’s need to lie around and restore during the most ripped-open phase of my grief did indeed allow me to heal and restore:

On my birthday in November, eleven months after my losses, I spontaneously needed to swim. Hard. In the cold water.

My body and soul needed to move — to expend energy, to feel blood pumping through my veins and cold water on my skin — in order to affirm my gratitude for still getting to be alive to mark another year while people I loved were no longer fortunate enough to have bodies that could know such joy. My arms reached and my legs kicked, and I felt at one with all the people I love, past and present. My heart burst wide with wonder as I felt it all.

Swimming on my birthday reignited my desire to swim regularly, so I picked it back up again, at the beginning of winter, without any hesitation. My body guided me through the whole process, down and through, and back up again. Amazing.

(Not that I’m “finished” with my grief, and not that I don’t still have sluggish days. It’s just that the phase of needing to pull in constantly has moved through, at least for now…)


If you’re grieving your own loss, or experiencing an intense emotional situation of some other kind, your body might tell you something similar to what mine did during this time of my loss. Or it might tell you something different. Every loss and every body is unique.

When my first husband died in 1992, that loss was traumatic— sudden, unexpected, out of the natural order of things. The losses I experienced last January were different. They were in the natural order of things, as my dad and my dog were both old and weakening — extremely painful but not traumatic. They were two distinct flavors of loss.

In 1992, I not only lost my husband in a devastating way, I also lost my entire identity and way of viewing the world. Nothing made sense any more. I was entirely disoriented and shattered.

So my emotions then were explosive, roiling, fierce. Sadness would practically knock me to the floor with its force. Rage at the universe over injustice burst out of my chest and throat. When I tried to rest and pull in, anguish pushed me to kick and scream. The feelings were so potent I needed to move them through my body.

I was a runner back then (before I blew out my knees), and running saved my life.

I buckled my year-old baby into our blue running stroller and ran until I couldn’t breathe. The pound, pound, pound of my feet upon the earth rattled the overwhelming feelings out of my body and into the earth. The earth absorbed them without complaint. Sweat poured down my chest and ragged breaths tore at my throat to match the intensity of my emotions, and helped me regain my sanity.

I’d arrive back home, fall onto the driveway, and sit on the blistering concrete while my son toddled around filling buckets with water from the hose. My breath would settle, and I’d feel able to make it through a few more hours.

Then, I could pull in and rest for a few hours after my boy was in bed. Before the roiling began again. At 2am. Every day. For a very long time.


There’s a whole lot if information I have about why movement and rest of different sorts help with intense emotions such as grief. I’ll write about that in another post.

But here I’m offering my own stories to give you permission to listen to your own body, to allow it to guide you through whatever kind of physical activity or rest will help you the most during your grief or other kinds of difficult emotions right now.

Unfortunately our culture is full of shoulds and prescriptions. People will tell you that you MUST move to prevent depression, or to pull yourself out of the (very normal) sluggishness of grief. Others will tell you that you MUST get your rest and not push yourself so hard.

In 1992, I definitely needed to learn the difference between listening to my body’s need to move for emotional expression, and my fear of sitting still to allow myself to rest. We all need some of both. But that was my lesson to glean. A lesson that was presented to me as a f***ing opportunity for growth within my grief. Not something that someone else could prescribe to me.

I wouldn’t have such faith in what I learned if I hadn’t wrestled with the difficulties myself.

I want you to know that your body is the container for all of your grief emotions, so your body will tell you what it needs. We’re socialized out of listening to our bodies, so it can take effort to learn to listen to the natural signals we’re getting. But I’m hoping that by hearing my stories, and having me articulate for you that both rest and movement of different sorts are extremely useful and natural ways of tending to your grief and other emotions, you’ll feel free to experiment.

Listen to your body.

Listen to your feelings.

Your grief is unique to you. Your loss is like no other.

Movement and rest both help, in their own ways, in their own time.

In the comments, or in a reply email, tell me what kind of movement works for you or what doesn’t as you feel intense emotions…


8 thoughts on “Feeling Anguish? Listen to Your Body. Not to Other People.

  1. My grief has made me extremely anxious and fearful as well. My worry is over the top about everything and anything. My emotions seem to burst from my chest. I have so much more empathy for people and animals. I fear being along and ill with no one to speak for me as I did when my husband was ill. It all seems to be too much some days. I have amazing friends and some dear family, as well as a wonderful son who has been my rock. He lives across the country and this makes me sad and filled with worry too.

    My world has changed drastically. I am in my late 60’s and everything seems bleak these days.

    1. Tina,
      My heart goes out to you. Losing your husband is SUCH a big loss–it affects every single aspect of your life. I know the feelings can be overwhelming at times. I’m grateful you have support from friends and family. That makes a difference, even though the support doesn’t take the pain away. Hang in there. The grief will find a place in your heart. I’m glad you’re reading my stuff–I hope my words help you feel not crazy, not alone.
      Sending care,

  2. Thank you Candyce. A beautiful reminder to trust ourselves and our inner wisdom for what we need moment by moment. Perfect reminder for me today.

    1. Melanie,
      I’m happy to know this reminder reached you today. Remembering to listen to inner wisdom is such a gift. Thanks for taking the time to write–that’s nudging me to listen to my own inner wisdom today.

  3. I feel like Tina. Everything seems bleak when you lose your husband and best friend. My husband was 66 and death was not expected. After reading this, I realize, I am convelescing and did not even know it. My husband brought me coffee in bed every morning. Now, I get coffee, go back to bed, wrap myself up in the covers, and write in my journal and read grief books. Yes, life is DRASTICALLY changed. I cannot come to terms with it. Thank you for your post.

    1. Karen,
      I’m so sorry you lost your husband and best friend. That kind of loss hurts beyond description, especially when unexpected. I think the idea of convalescing is spot on. You’ve experienced a deep wound and you need rest to heal. Take soft care of yourself. I send care to you.

  4. I too, lost my husband. He had battled 16 years with cancer beginning at the age of 46. Those 16 years were full of anguish for him but he pushed himself every day to live as much of life as he could. Those years were difficult for me as well, trying to create memories for myself and kids, while providing the ongoing care he needed. I retired early to be home more and to be his primary caregiver, something I don’t regret. His death was not a surprise, but I still felt shocked when he died. He’s been gone for over 3 years now and I’m still wondering what to make of the rest of my life. I’ve spent a lifetime of not making myself a priority, something I’ve learned firsthand from watching my mom do the same thing. I’m the oldest of a large family and responsibility came very early into my life. And when our kids came along, they were priority. Then when my husband got sick, he became the priority. My parents are elderly, and although they are still living on their own, their recent illnesses since my husband’s death have become my priority. My kids are grown and I’ve grandchildren now (and what a real joy they are to me), I’ve taken on a part time job, I’m doing some volunteering, and for the first time in forever, I occasionally find myself with time on my hands. Sometimes I am productive with that time, but a lot of times I can’t bring myself to do much of anything. To use your terms, I find myself ‘pulling in and curling up’. I’d feel so guilty for doing that, but after reading this post, I’m aware now that my mind, body and spirit have been trying to tell me something. This is the first time since his death that I’ve had ‘time’ to grieve, and every now and them I begin to feel like I am getting my wits about me. I’m so happy I’ve found your post and website. It’s very reassuring to hear your thoughts and explanations on grief. I’m so sorry for your loss of your first husband. Knowing you’ve been through such a loss and your heartfelt sharing of all you’ve been through brings so much validation to your comments, and your experiences since then help to make me feel more hopeful for the future. Thank you.

    1. Teresa,
      Thanks so much for sharing your story with me. My heart goes out to you in the midst of all you’ve had to face. I’m deeply moved by hearing that this post helped you trust your body and spirit. So few places in our culture encourage that. I’m heartened to know that my words have made you feel reassured. I’ll keep posting, sending information, so that you can keep feeling supported.
      Sending care,

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