Self-Care Is A Lie: What grief actually requires from you

Jul 08, 2025

I promised myself Monday I would change. I would do what was necessary to keep the shattered pieces held together and take one step closer to being the person I wanted to be.

But Monday passed in another tired defeat.

I didn't meditate.

I didn't work-out.

I didn't eat well.

I didn't sleep.

I made many promises to myself every day and broke equally as many. It was easier to pour myself into helping others than to face helping myself.

Each broken promise added weight. Guilt. Shame. A relentless inner critic that whispered, "failure," fueling my paralysis.

Until the paralysis built into a crushing pressure and I would finally do everything I told myself I would do. One day. I do it. I feel great about it. About myself.

The guilt and shame are alleviated, but not gone, and I could go to bed feeling accomplished and proud.

But the next day I wake up, having the pressure alleviated, and go right back to the old habits and mindset.

I'm defeated. Again.

Life-change becomes a grind, and I remain stuck in a rut. I feel as if I am no closer to the person I want to be and the life I want to have.

That inner critic creates a motivation gap that feels insurmountable and unachievable. My focus was fixed on the end goal and forgetting all the little steps on the way.

This cycle continues, in the most stable of times.

But what happens when our entire world shifts?

When our future is taken from us?

When the guilt and shame mixed with profound grief and brokenness form into an explosive compound mixture?

How do you find any sense of motivation or even care about any promises you make to yourself when life takes on a new empty and guarded sense of meaningless?

In the intensity of grief, brokenness devours motivation. Yet, the promises we keep then are lifelines. They are the stubborn acts of survival guiding us toward a new life we never imagined or asked for, but one we have to pursue with unwavering commitment to self.

After my wife died, and six months later when we found a tumor in my son’s neck, I discovered that how we talk to ourselves mattered more than I ever realized, and keeping the smallest promises through deep loss and pain became not only helpful, but life-saving.

What I have learned about the language we use with ourselves in our darkest moments changed everything for me and guided me towards a more sustainable approach to self-promises.

It all began the moment I gave myself permission to stop continuing to force myself to bring back the "old me.”

What was good then, wasn't suitable now. And, if I wanted meaning again in my life and to carry it forward, my promises and language to myself had to be shifted to recognizing the simplest actions as progress and momentous.

Surrendering is a strategy, not a weakness.

Active Survival

As much as battle language does not belong in the conversation about those living with cancer, I feel it fits perfectly for grief.

We fight to keep ourselves alive.

We find a way to survive the day.

We have to make conscious, sometimes gritty choices, to keep our bodies and minds from falling apart.

Basically, we must fight like hell for our lives.

Self-care in grief is far from spa days, workout routines, and counting calories. It is basics in survival:

Brushing your teeth.
Taking a shower.
Eating one real meal.

It's making the bar so low it's impossible not to clear. Taking a single moment to notice we are breathing to remind ourselves we are still alive.

Recognize your need to feel the pain. Create two playlists: one that shatters you and splits you in half, guts spilled out, sobbing on the floor uncontrollably. Feeling the intensity of your grief.

Another for the anthems in your life that give you, even the smallest, bit of motivation to keep going. The songs that make you pump your fist in the air and yell out against all the things wrong in your life.

Stay grounded by picking a single location. Somewhere you can go touch and feel, and see that it is still there. A place that is steady and firm amid all the chaos.

Your physical anchor. A real place in a world that feels plastic and unreal.

Permission to Collapse

Surrendering is a strategy, not a weakness.

I fought this idea hard in the early years of my grief. I'd rather die than give myself permission to surrender to anyone or anything. "I would be the best griever the world has ever seen" I declared in arrogance

But the reality is, there is strength in the surrender.

Cancel that one thing this week.
Redefine rest.
Stare out the window.
Listen to your music lying down.
Sit in silence.
Take a "grief nap."

Sleep isn't lazy; it's essential work.

These are biological necessities. Your brain is doing the hardest work of it's life. It's trying to rewire itself around a massive loss. Sleep and rest aren't lazy; they are essential work.

Do all of it without guilt and screw anyone who makes you feel guilty.

Build Your War Council

I've mentioned before how important it is to have your advocates while in your caretaker role. Well, it's doubly important to find your council of people strong enough to hold your grief.

It takes time.

It took me three years to rebuild my community of support.

It's exhausting but worthwhile.

You can determine who is a right fit for your war council by observing how you feel when you're with them and after your conversation. If you find yourself more exhausted and even frustrated, they have no place in your life, let alone your council.

If you walk away feeling heard and seen, they are the ones for you. Tell them how they are helping you. Give them the positive feedback so they can do more of it.

Set boundaries around your time and emotions. You are allowed to tell someone, "I don't need your advice right now, I just need you to listen." You don't have to wait for permission to tell someone to stop the behavior that is not helping you and possibly even hurting you.

No one needs to fix you; they only need to listen and reflect your pain.

To be a witness to everything you are enduring.

Decommission the Shrine

This one hurts.

There is never a right time to put their things away.

The pain of holding and seeing the things that were last touched, used, or worn is somehow comforting. It's a connection to the last remaining parts of them that still exist in this world after they have left it.

It's difficult, but it's supposed to be.

So start slow and remember, you're not getting rid of it, you're decommissioning it.

You are making room for the memories to live on in you–not just their stuff.

You are making room for the memories to live on in you–not just their stuff.

Construct Your Future

The future is a black void where nothing exists because you're not sure how long you will exist.

Life is tenuous.

You're future was taken.

You don't need a goal or a to-do list.

Instead, create a "What Now" list. A simple note where every time you have any sparks of future-oriented thoughts you can jot them down. The smallest thought is worth recognizing.

"Learn to make pasta."

"Visit the ocean."

"Try photography."

"Read that book."

It's not a plan. It's a place to begin forming the pieces of your new identity.

We are required to redefine what promises we make to ourselves post-loss. And each phase of our grief will require new and different promises. It is never failure to decide that your old promises, and old life no longer serve you.

It is not a stain on the memory and legacy of your loved one.

Learning who you are now and what promises are important is the strongest and most honorable thing you can do for yourself and those you've lost.

- CJ

One last thing. The strategies I share here are the lessons learned over the years. But the early days of grief are a brutal, isolating chaos.

I've written the story of that first year. The raw, unfiltered account. It’s not a guide to healing; it’s a witness to the fight.

If you want to be notified when it's out, you can join the list now.

What’s your take on today’s topic? What has been your experience? Is there something I missed?